UBRAftY 

owvERsmr  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


LYRICS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


LYRICS  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 


BY 


RICHARD   WATSON    GILDER. 

'i  / 


r.  L  YRICS  AND  HYMNS. 
II.  BALLADS. 

III.  SONNETS. 

IV.  ODES  AND  MEDITA  TIVE  POEMS. 
V.   THE  NEW  DAY. 


NEW   YORK: 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS. 

1885. 


Copyright,  1875,  by 
RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 

Copyright,   1880,  by 
RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 

Copyright,   1885,  by 
RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


CONTENTS. 


LYRICS. 

A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN     ....        1        ..  3 

HYMN  :   Sung  at  the  Presentation  of  the  Obelisk      .  5 

MORNING  AND  NIGHT 8 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  SUMMER 9 

A  MIDSUMMER  SONG    .        .        .        .        .        .        .11 

ON  THE  WILD  ROSE  TREE" 13 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  AUTUMN 14 

A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHT 16 

"A  WORD  SAID  IN  THE  DARK" 18 

"  AFTER  SORROW'S  NIGHT  " 19 

BEFORE  SUNRISE .20 

"THE  WOODS  THAT  BRING  THE  SUNSET  NEAR"     .  21 

"  O  SILVER  RIVER  FLOWING  TO  THE  SEA  "                   .  22 

"  BACK  FROM  THE  DARKNESS  TO  THE  LIGHT  AGAIN  "  23 

"  O  LOVE  IN  SORROW  " 24 

"THE  SMILE  OF  HER  I  LOVE"         ....  25 

AT  NIGHT 26 

2 


CONTENTS, 

PAGE. 

CRADLE  SONG 27 

NINE  YEARS 2§ 

A  NOVEMBER  CHILD 3° 

REFORM 31 

THE  VOYAGER 33 

DRINKING  SONG 35 

DECORATION  DAY 37 

NORTH  TO  THE  SOUTH 38 

THE  DEAD  COMRADE 39 

PORTO  FINO 41 

A  MADONNA  OF  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI  ...  43 

ESSIPOFF 44 

"  WE  MET  UPON  THE  CROWDED  WAY  "...  45 

FOR  AN  ALBUM 46 

STREPHON  AND  SARDON 47 

THE  POET'S  PROTEST 48 

WANTED,  A  THEME  ! 49 

"  WHEN  THE  TRUE  POET  COMES  "  ....  50 

To  A  YOUNG  POET 51 

DESECRATION 52 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 54 

OUR  ELDER  POETS -55 

To  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND 57 

"JOCOSERIA" 58 

THE  MODERN  RHYMER 59 


CONTENTS.  vii 

BALLADS.  PAGE- 

THE  RIVER  INN .65 

THE  WHITE  AND  THE  RED  ROSE  ....          67 
JOHN  CARMAN     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .70 

AT  FOUR-SCORE 75 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CHIMNEY         ....      79 

SONNETS. 

THE  SONNET 91 

LONGFELLOW'S  "  BOOK  OF  SONNETS  "...  92 

THE  NEW  TROUBADOURS 93 

A  SONNET  OF  DANTE 94 

A  RIDDLE  OF  LOVERS 95 

"  WHEN  LOVE  DAWNED  " 96 

CONGRESS  :  1878 97 

A  PORTRAIT  OF  SERVETUS 98 

MODJESKA 99 

KEATS 100 

AN  INSCRIPTION  IN  ROME          .        .        .                .  101 

"  CALL  ME  NOT  DEAD  " 102 

To  A  DEPARTED  FRIEND  (J.  G.  H.)         .        .        .  103 

"H.  H." I04 

LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

I.  "  Now  who  can  take  from  us  what  we  have  known  ?"  105 

II.  "  We  know  not  where  they  tarry  who  have  died  "  .  106 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

"THE  EVENING  STAR" 107 

COST 108 

•'  DAY  UNTO  DAY  UTTERETH  SPEECH  "...  109 

FATHER  AND  CHILD no 

THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION  .•  ."  .  .  .  in 

ODES  AND   MEDITATIVE   POEMS. 

Music  AND  WORDS 115 

THE  POET'S  FAME           .        .        .        .                .  117 
THE  POET  AND  His  MASTER     ...      • .       .        .121 

ODE 126 

AT  THE  PRESIDENT'S  GRAVE 130 

THE  BURIAL  OF  GRANT.       .       .       . -             .'  132 
A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEAD  OF  THE  "JEANNETTE" 

BROUGHT   HOME  ON   THE  "  FRISIA "          .           .  135 

A  THOUGHT        .        .        .  - 139 

ILL  TIDINGS 140 

A  NEW  WORLD 141 

FATE 142 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PINE           .....  145 

THE  HOMESTEAD 148 

"  BEYOND  THE  BRANCHES  OF  THE  PINE  "    .        .        .  150 

AN  AUTUMN  MEDITATION 151 

RECOGNITION 154 


THE    NEW   DAY. 


PAGE 

PRELUDE  161 


PART    I. 

I.  SONNET.     (After  the  Italian)       .        .        .         .165 

II.  SONNET.     (After  the  Italian)           ...  166 

III.  "  A   BARREN   STRETCH  THAT  SLANTS  TO   THE 

SALT  SEA'S  GRAY" 167 

IV.  LOVE  IN  WONDER 168 

V.  LOVE  GROWN  BOLD 169 

INTERLUDE        . 173 

PART    II. 

I.  WORDS  WITHOUT  SONG 177 

II.  THE  DARK  ROOM  :  A  Parable. 

I.  "A  maiden  sought  her  love  in  a  dark  room  "  178 
II.  "Great  God!  the  arms  wherein  that  maiden 

fell" 179 

III.  "  I  MET  A  TRAVELLER  ON  THE  ROAD  "  180 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

IV.  WRITTEN  ON  A  FLY-LEAF  OF  "  SHAKESPEARE'S 

SONNETS  " 182 

V.  "AND  WERE  THAT  BEST!  "  .  183 

VI.  "THERE  is  NOTHING  NEW  UNDER  THE  SUN"  184 

VII.  LOVE'S  CRUELTY 186 

INTERLUDE 189 

PART    III. 

I.  "  MY  LOVE  FOR  THEE  DOTH  MARCH  LIKE  ARMED 

MEN  " 193 

II.  "  I  WILL  BE  BRAVE   FOR  THEE  "        .        .         194 
III.  "  LOVE  ME  NOT,  LOVE,  FOR  THAT  I  FIRST  LOVED 

THEE" ,   '      195 

IV.  BODY  AND  SOUL. 

I.  "  O  thou  my  Love,  love  first  my  lonely  soul!  "  196 
II.  "But,  Love,  for  me  thy  body  was  the  first."  197 
V.  "  THY  LOVER,  LOVE,  WOULD  HAVE  SOME  NOBLER 

WAY"         .        .        .       -.        .        .        .198 
VI.  "  WHAT  WOULD  I  SAVE  THEE  FROM  ?  "    .         199 

VII.  LOVE'S  JEALOUSY 200 

VIII.  LOVE'S  MONOTONE 201 

IX.  "  ONCE  ONLY  " 202 

X.  DENIAL 203 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE. 

XI.  "ONCE  WHEN  WE  WALKED  WITHIN  A  SUMMER 

FIELD  " 204 

XII.  SONG 205 

XIII.  LISTENING  TO  Music 206 

XIV.  "  A  SONG  OF  THE  MAIDEN  MORN  "        .        .  207 
XV.  WORDS  IN  ABSENCE 208 

XVI.  SONG %  209 

XVII.  THISTLE-DOWN .  210 

•  XVIII.  "O  SWEET  WILD  ROSES  THAT  BUD  AND  BLOW."  211 

XIX.  THE  RIVER 213 

XX.  THE  LOVER'S  LORD  AND  MASTER          .        .  214 

XXI.  "A  NIGHT  OF  STARS  AND  DREAMS"         .        .  215 

XXII.  A  BIRTHDAY  SONG          .        .        .  ,     .        .  216 

XXIII.    "WHAT  CAN   LOVE   DO   FOR  THEE,    LOVE  ?  "         .  217 

XXIV.  FRANCESCA  AND  PAOLO           ....  219 

XXV.  THE  UNKNOWN  WAY 220 

XXVI.  THE  SOWER 222 

XXVII.  "  WHEN  THE  LAST  DOUBT  is  DOUBTED  "  .        .  225 

INTERLUDE 229 

PART   IV. 

I.  SONG 233 

II.  THE  MIRROR 234 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

III.  LIKENESS  IN  UNLIKENESS         ....  235 

IV.  SONG 236 

V.  ALL  IN  ONE 237 

VI.  "  I   COUNT   MY  TIME  BY  TIMES   THAT  I  MEET 

THEE" 238 

VII.  SONG 239 

VIII.  THE  SEASONS 240 

IX.  "  SUMMER'S  RAIN  AND  WINTER'S  SNOW  "  241 

X.  THE  VIOLIN 242 

XI.  ';  MY  SONGS  ARE  ALL  OF  THEE  "      .        .  243 

XII.  AFTER  MANY  DAYS 244 

XIII.  WEAL  AND  WOE  .        .        .        .        .        .  245 

XIV.  "  OH,  LOVE  is   NOT  A  SUMMER  MOOD  "        .  246 
XV.  "  LOVE  is  NOT  BOND  TO  ANY  MAN  "       .  247 

XVI.    "HE    KNOWS    NOT    THE    PATH    OF    DUTY  "         .  248 

AFTER-SONG      ....        f.        ...  251 


LYRICS. 


A    CHRISTMAS    HYMN. 


r 


me  what  is  this  innumerable  throng 
Singing  in  the  heavens  a  loud  angelic  song  ? 
These    are    they    who    come    with    swift    and 

shining  feet 

From    round    about   the    throne   of  God   the 
Lord  of  Light  to  greet. 

II. 

Oh,  who  are  these  that  hasten  beneath  the  starry  sky  — 
As   if    with    joyful    tidings    that    through    the    world 
shall  fly?  — 


4  A    CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

The  fearful  shepherds  these,  who  greatly  were 

afeared 
When,  as  they  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

the  heavenly  host  appeared. 

in. 

Who  are  these  that  follow  across  the  hills  of  night 
A  star  that  westward  hurries  along  the  fields  of  light  ? 
Three  wise   men   from   the    East  who   myrrh 

and  treasure  bring 

To  lay  them   at   the   feet  of  him   their  Lord 
and  Christ  and  King. 

IV. 

What  babe  new-born  is  this  that  in  a  manger  cries  ? 
Near  on  her  lowly  bed  his  happy  mother  lies. 

Oh,  see    the    air   is    shaken    with    white    and 

heavenly  wings  — 

This  is  the  Lord  of  all  the  earth,  this  is  the 
King  of  Kings. 


HYMN. 


HYMN: 

SUNG  AT  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  THE  OBELISK  TO  THE 
CITY  OF  NEW  YORK,  FEB.  22,  l88l. 


GREAT  GOD,  to  whom  since  time  began 

The  world  has  prayed  and  striven; 
Maker  of  stars,  and  earth,  and  man  — 
To  thee  our  praise  is  given. 
Here,  by  this  ancient  Sign 
Of  thine  own  Light  divine, 
We  lift  to  thee  our  eyes 
Thou  Dweller  of  the  Skies,— 
Hear  us,  O  God  in  Heaven! 

n. 

Older  than  Nilus*  mighty  flood 
Into  the  Mid-Sea  pouring, 


HYMN. 

Or  than  the  sea,  thou  God  hast  stood, — 
Thou  God  of  our  adoring! 

Waters  and  stormy  blast 

Haste  when  thou  bid'st  them  haste; 

Silent,  and  hid,  and  still, 

Thou  sendest  good  and  ill : 
Thy  ways  are  past  exploring. 

in. 

In  myriad  forms,  by  myriad  names, 

Men  seek  to  bind  and  mould  thee  : 
But  thou  dost  melt,  like  wax  in  flames, 
The  cords  that  would  enfold  thee. 
Who  madest  life  and  light, 
Bring'st  morning  after  night, 
WTho  all  things  did'st  create  — 
No  majesty,  nor  state, 
Nor  word,  nor  world,  can  hold  thee! 

IV. 

Great  God,  to  whom  since  time  began 
The  world  has  prayed  and  striven; 


HYMN. 

Maker  of  stars,  and  earth,  and  man  — 
To  thee  our  praise  is  given. 

Of  suns  thou  art  the  Sun, — 

Eternal,  holy  One: 

Who  can  us  help  save  thou! 

To  thee  alone  we  bow ! 
Hear  us,  O  God  in  Heaven! 


MORNING  AND  NIGHT. 


MORNING    AND    NIGHT. 

THE  mountain  that  the  morn  doth  kiss 
Glad  greets  its  shining  neighbor : 

Lord !  heed  the  homage  of  our  bliss, — 
The  incense  of  our  labor. 

Now  the  long  shadows  eastward  creep, 

The  golden  sun  is  setting : 
Take,  Lord !  the  worship  of  our  sleep, — 

The  praise  of  our  forgetting. 


A    SONG   OF  EARLY  SUMMER. 


A   SONG   OF   EARLY   SUMMER. 

NOT  yet  the  orchard  lifted 
Its  cloudy  bloom  to  the  sky, 

Nor  through  the  twilight  drifted 
The  whip-poor-will's  low  cry; 

The  gray  rock  had  not  made 
Of  the  vine  its  glistening  kirtle; 

Nor  shook  in  the  locust  shade 
The  purple  bells  of  the  myrtle. 

Not  yet  up  the  chimney-hollow 
Was  heard  in  the  darkling  night 

The  boom  and  whir  of  the  swallow 
And  the  twitter  that  follows  the  flight; 

Before  the  foamy  whitening 
Of  the  water  below  the  mill; 

Ere  yet  the  summer  lightning 

Shone  red  at  the  edge  of  the  hill  — 
4 


A   SONG  OF  EARLY  SUMMER. 

In  the  time  of  sun  and  showers, 
Of  skies  half-black,  half-clear ; 

'Twixt  melting  snows  and  flowers; 
At  the  poise  of  the  flying  year; 

When  woods  flushed  pink  and  yellow 

In  dreams  of  leafy  June ; 
And  days  were  keen  or  mellow 

Like  tones  in  a  changing  tune  — 

Before  the  birds  had  broken 
Forth  in  their  song  divine, 

Oh!  then  the  word  was  spoken 
That  made  my  darling  mine. 


A    MIDSUMMER   SONG,  n 

A    MIDSUMMER    SONG. 

OH,  father 's  gone  to  market-town,  he  was  up  before 

the  day, 
And  Jamie 's  after  robins,   and  the  man    is   making 

hay, 
And   whistling  down  the   hollow  goes  the  boy  that 

minds  the  mill, 
While  mother  from  the  kitchen-door  is  calling  with 

a  will, 

"  Polly !  —  Polly ! — The  cows  are  in  the  corn! 
Oh,  where's  Polly?" 

From  all  the  misty  morning  air  there  comes  a  sum 
mer  sound, — 
A   murmur   as   of  waters   from  skies,  and  trees  and 

ground. 
The  birds   they  sing  upon  the  wing,  the  pigeons  bill 

and  coo, 

And  over  hill  and  hollow  rings  again  the  loud  halloo : 
"Polly!  —  Polly! — The  cows  are  in  the  corn! 
Oh,  where's  Polly?" 


12  A   MIDSUMMER  SONG. 

Above  the  trees  the  honey-bees  swarm  by  with  buzz 

and  boom, 
And   in   the  field   and   garden   a   thousand   blossoms 

bloom. 

Within  the  farmer's  meadow  a  brown-eyed  daisy  blows, 
And    down   at    the    edge   of  the   hollow   a  red  and 
thorny  rose. 

But  Polly!  —  Polly!  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn! 
Oh,  where  's  Polly  ? 

How  strange  at  such  a  time  of  day  the  mill  should 

stop  its  clatter! 
The  farmer's  wife  is  listening  now  and  wonders  what 's 

the  matter. 
Oh,  wild   the   birds  are  singing  in  the  wood  and  on 

the  hill, 
While    whistling    up    the    hollow    goes   the  boy  that 

minds  the  mill. 

But  Polly !  —  Polly !  — The  cows  are  in  the  corn ! 
Oh,  where  's  Polly  ? 


"ON  THE    WILD  ROSE   TREE."  13 


"ON   THE   WILD    ROSE   TREE.'; 

ON  the  wild  rose  tree 
Many  buds  there  be, 
Yet  each  sunny  hour 
Hath  but  one  perfect  flower. 

Thou  who  wouldst  be  wise 
Open  wide  thine  eyes, — 
In  each  sunny  hour 
Pluck  the  one  perfect  flower ! 


14  A   SONG   OF  EARLY  AUTUMN. 

A   SONG   OF   EARLY   AUTUMN. 

WHEN  late  in  summer  the  streams  run  yellow, 
Burst  the  bridges  and  spread  into  bays; 

When  berries  are  black  and  peaches  are  mellow, 
And  hills  are  hidden  by  rainy  haze ; 

When  the  golden -rod  is  golden  still, 

But  the  heart  of  the  sun-flower  is  darker  and  sadder ; 
When  the  corn  is  in  stacks  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 

And  slides  o'er  the  path  the  striped  adder. 

When  butterflies  flutter  from  clover  to  thicket, 
Or  wave  their  wings  on  the  drooping  leaf; 

When   the   breeze   comes  shrill  with   the  call  of  the 

cricket  — 
Grasshoppers'  rasp,  and  rustle  of  sheaf. 

When  high  in  the  field  the  fern-leaves  wrinkle, 
And  brown   is   the  grass  where   the   mowers  have 
mown ; 

When  low  In  the  meadow  the  cow-bells  tinkle, 
And  small  brooks  crinkle  o'er  stock  and  stone. 


A    SONG   OF  EARLY  AUTUMN.  15 

When  heavy  and  hollow  the  robin's  whistle, 
And  shadows  are  deep  in  the  heat  of  noon ; 

W7hen  the  air  is  white  with  the  down  o'  the  thistle, 
And  the  sky  is  red  with  the  harvest  moon ; 

Oh  then  be  chary,  young  Robert  and  Mary, 
No  time  let  slip,  not  a  moment  wait! 

If  the  fiddle  would  play  it  must  stop  its  tuning, 
And   they   who   would   wed   must  be  done  with 

their  mooning. 

Let  the  churn  rattle,  see  well  to  the  cattle, 
And  pile  the  wood  by  the  barn-yard  gate ! 


1 6  A    WOMAN'S   THOUGHT. 


A   WOMAN'S  THOUGHT. 

I  AM  a  woman  —  therefore  I  may  not 

Call  to  him,  cry  to  him, 

Fly  to  him, 

Bid  him  delay  not ! 

And  when  he  comes  to  me,  I  must  sit  quiet 

Still  as  a  stone  — 

All  silent  and  cold. 

If  my  heart  riot — 

Crush  and  defy  it! 

Should  I  grow  bold — 

Say  one  dear  thing  to  him, 

All  my  life  fling  to  him, 

Cling  to  him — 

What  to  atone 

Is  enough  for  my  sinning ! 


A    WOMAN'S   THOUGHT. 

This  were  the  cost  to  me, 
This  were  my  winning — 
That  he  were  lost  to  me. 

Not  as  a  lover 
At  last  if  he  part  from  me, 
Tearing  my  heart  from  me  — 
Hurt  beyond  cure, — 
Calm  and  demure 
Then  must  I  hold  me  — 
In  myself  fold  me  — 
Lest  he  discover; 
Showing  no  sign  to  him 
By  look  of  mine  to  him 
What  he  has  been  to  me  — 
How  my  heart  turns  to  him, 
Follows  him,  yearns  to  him, 
Prays  him  to  love  me. 

Pity  me,  lean  to  me, 
Thou  God  above  me! 


i8  "A    WORD  SAID  IN  THE  DARK: 


"A  WORD   SAID   IN   THE   DARK." 

A  WORD  said  in  the  dark 
And  hands  pressed,  for  a  token ; 

"  Now,  little  maiden,  mark 
The  word  that  you  have  spoken; 
Be  not  your  promise  broken ! " 

His  lips  upon  her  cheek 
Felt  tears  among  their  kisses; 

"  O  pardon  I  bespeak 
If  for  my  doubting  this  is ! 
Now  all  my  doubting  ceases." 


"AFTER  SORROW'S  NIGHT:'1 

"AFTER   SORROW'S   NIGHT." 

AFTER  sorrow's  night 
Dawned  the  morning  bright. 
In  dewy  woods  I  heard 
A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "  Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "  Love,  love,  love." 

Evening  shadows  fell 

In  our  happy  dell. 

From  glimmering  woods  I  heard 

A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "  Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "  Love,  love,  love." 

Oh,  the  summer  night 
Starry  was  and  bright. 
In  the  dark  woods  I  heard 
A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "  Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "  Love,  love,  love." 


20  BEFORE  SUNRISE. 


BEFORE   SUNRISE. 

THE  winds  of  morning  move  and  sing, 
The  western  stars  are  lingering ; 
In  the  pale  east  one  planet  still 
Shines  large  above  King  Philip's  hill; — 

And  near,  in  gold  against  the  blue, 
The  old  moon,  in  its  arms  the  new. 
Lo,  the  deep  waters  of  the  bay 
Stir  with  the  breath  of  hurrying  day. 

Wake,  loved  one,  wake  and  look  with  me 

Across  the  narrow,  dawn-lit  sea! 

Such  beauty  is  not  wholly  mine 

Till  thou,  dear  heart,  hast  made  it  thine. 


'THE    WOODS   THAT  BRING    THE 
SUNSET  NEAR." 


"THE    WOODS    THAT    BRING    THE 
SUNSET   NEAR." 

THE  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing, 
The  homeward- wandering  cows  are  lowing, 
Dark  grow  the  pine-woods,  dark  and  drear,- 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 

When  o'er  wide  seas  the  sun  declines, 
Far  off  its  fading  glory  shines, 
Far  off,  sublime,  and  full  of  fear  — 
The  pine-woods  bring  the  sunset  near. 

This  house  that  looks  to  east,  to  west, 
This,  dear  one,  is  our  home,  our  rest ; 
Yonder  the  stormy  sea,  and  here 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 


22  "O  SILVER  RIVER  FLOWING  TO 

THE  SEA:' 


"O    SILVER    RIVER    FLOWING    TO 
THE    SEA." 

O  SILVER  river  flowing  to  the  sea, 

Strong,  calm,  and  solemn  as  thy  mountains  be ! 

Poets  have  sung  thy  ever-living  power, 

Thy  wintry  day,  and  summer  sunset  hour ; 

Have  told  how  rich  thou  art,  how  broad,  how  deep; 

What  commerce  thine,  how  many  myriads  reap 

The  harvest  of  thy  waters.     They  have  sung 

Thy  moony  nights,  when  every  shadow  flung 

From  cliff  or  pine  is  peopled  with  dim  ghosts 

Of  settlers,  old-world  fairies,  or  the  hosts 

Of  Indian  warriors  that  once  ploughed  thy  waves  — 

Now  hurrying  to  the  dance  from  hidden  graves; 

The  waving  outline  of  thy  wooded  mountains, 

Thy  populous  towns  that  stretch  from  forest  fountains 

On  either  side,  far  to  the  salty  main, 

Like  golden  coins  alternate  on  a  chain. 


'BACK  FROM   THE  DARKNESS  TO    THE 
LIGHT  AGAIN." 


23 


Thou  pathway  of  the  empire  of  the  North, 
Thy  praises  through  the  earth  have  travelled  forth ! 
I  hear  thee  praised  as  one  who  hears  the  shout 
That  follows  when  a  hero  from  the  rout 
Of  battle  issues,  "  Lo,  how  brave  is  he, — 
How  noble,  proud,  and  beautiful !  "     But  she 
Who  knows  him  best — "How  tender!"    So  thou  art 
The  river  of  love  to  me ! 

—  Heart  of  my  heart, 

Dear  love  and  bride  —  is  it  not  so  indeed  ? — 
Among  your  treasures  keep  this  new-plucked  reed. 


"BACK    FROM    THE     DARKNESS    TO    THE 
LIGHT   AGAIN." 

"  BACK  from  the  darkness  to  the  light  again ! " — 
Not  from  the  darkness,  Love,  for  hadst  thou  lain 
Within  the  shadowy  portal  of  the  tomb, 
Thy  light  had  warmed  the  darkness  into  bloom. 


"O  LOVE  IN  SORROWS 


"O    LOVE   IN   SORROW!" 

O  LOVE  in  sorrow !  sorrow,  Love,  no  more ; 
Though  dark  the  night,  the  morning  cometh  fast : 
Though  black  the  ocean,  bright  the  circling  shore. 

Not  long  we  labor  at  the  wearying  oar, 
For  lo !  strong  love  upholds  the  fallen  mast : 
The  storm  but  hurries  us  where  we  would  be  — 
Beyond  the  driving  winds  and  raging  sea. 


"THE  SMILE   OF  HER  I  LOVE." 


"THE   SMILE    OF    HER   I    LOVE." 

THE  smile  of  her  I  love  is  like  the  dawn 
Whose  touch  makes  Memnon  sing: 
O  see  where  wide  the  golden  sunlight  flows  — 
The  barren  desert  blossoms  as  the  rose ! 

The  smile  of  her  I  love  —  when  that  is  gone, 
O'er  all  the  world  night  spreads  her  shadowy  wing. 


26  AT  NIGHT. 


AT    NIGHT. 

THE  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  bay  below 
Save  where  the  midnight  city's  pallid  glow 
Lies  like  a  lily  white 
On  the  black  pool  of  night. 

O  rushing  steamer,  hurry  on  thy  way 
Across  the  swirling  Kills  and  gusty  bay, 
To  where  the  eddying  tide 
Strikes  hard  the  city's  side! 

For  there,  between  the  river  and  the  sea, 
Beneath  that  glow, —  the  lily's  heart  to  me,- 
A  sleeping  mother  mild, 
And  by  her  breast  a  child. 


CRADLE  SONG. 


CRADLE   SONG. 

IN  the  embers  shining  bright 
A  garden  grows  for  thy  delight, 
With  roses  yellow,  red,  and  white. 

But,  O  my  child,  beware,  beware! 
Touch  not  the  roses  growing  there, 
For  every  rose  a  thorn  doth  bear. 


27 


28  NINE    YEARS. 


NINE   YEARS. 

NINE  years  to  heaven  had  flown, 
And  June  came,  with  June's  token  — 

The  wild  rose  that  had  known 
A  maiden's  silence  broken. 

'Twas  thus  the  lover  spoke, 

And  thus  she  leaned  and  listened : 

(Below,  the  billows  broke, 

The  blue  sea  shook  and  glistened,) 

"  We  have  been  happy,  Love, 

Through  bright  and  stormy  weather, 

Happy  all  hope  above, 

For  we  have  been  together. 

"  To  meet,  to  love,  to  wed  — 
Joy  without  stint  or  measure  — 

This  was  our  lot,"  he  said, 

"  To  find  untouched  our  treasure. 


NINE    YEARS. 

"  But  had  some  blindfold  fate 
Bound  each  unto  another  — 

To  turn  from  Heaven's  gate, 

Each  heart-throb  hide  and  smother! 

"  O  dear  and  faithful  heart 
If  thus  had  we  been  fated; 

To  meet,  to  know,  to  part  — 
Too  early,  falsely,  mated ! 

"  Were  this  out  bitter  plight, 

Ah,  could  we  have  dissembled  ?  " 

Her  cheek  turned  pale  with  fright; 
She  hid  her  face,  and  trembled. 


A   NOVEMBER   CHILD. 


A   NOVEMBER   CHILD. 

NOVEMBER  winds,  blow  mild 

On  this  new-born  child ! 

Spirit  of  the  autumn  wood, 

Make  her  gentle,  make  her  good ! 

Still  attend  her, 

And  befriend  her, 

Fill  her  days  with  warmth  and  color; 

Keep  her  safe  from  winter's  dolor. 

On  thy  bosom 

Hide  this  blossom 

Safe  from  summer's  rain  and  thunder! 

When  those  eyes  of  light  and  wonder 

Tire  at  last  of  earthly  places  — 

Full  of  years  and  full  of  graces  — 

Then,  O  then 

Take  her  back  to  heaven  again ! 


REFORM.  31 


REFORM. 


OH,   how    shall   I    help   to    right   the    world    that   is 

going  wrong ! 
And  what   can   I   do  to  hurry  the  promised  time  of 

peace ! 
The   day  of  work  is   short  and  the  night  of  sleep  is 

long; 
And  whether  to  pray  or  preach,  or  whether  to  sing 

a  song, 
To  plow  in  my  neighbor's  field,  or  to  seek  the  golden 

fleece, 
Or  to   sit  with   my  hands  in  my  lap,  and  wish  that 

ill   would  cease ! 

ii. 

I  think,  sometimes,  it  were  best  just  to  let  the  Lord 

alone ; 
I   am  sure  some  people  forget   He   was  here  before 

they  came; 


32  REFORM. 

Though  they  say  it  is  all   for  His  glory,  't  is  a  good 

dcd.1  more  for  their  own, 
That  they  peddle  their  petty  schemes,  and  blate  and 

babble  and  groan. 
I   sometimes   think  it  were  best,  and  I  were  little  to 

blame, 
Should   I   sit   with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  in  my  face 

a  crimson  shame. 


THE    VOYAGER. 


33 


THE   VOYAGER. 

i. 

"  FRIEND,  why  goest  thou  forth 
When  ice-hills  drift  from  the  north 
And  crush  together  ?  " 

"The  Voice  that  me  doth  call 
Heeds  not  the  ice-hill's  fall, 

Nor  wind,  nor  weather." 

ii. 

"  But,  friend,  the  night  is  black ; 
Behold  the  driving  wrack 

And  wild  seas  under ! " 

"  My  straight  and  narrow  bark 
Fears  not  the  threatening  dark, 
Nor  storm,  nor  thunder." 
7 


34 


THE    VOYAGER. 

III. 

"  But  oh,  thy  children  dear ! 
Thy  wife  —  she  is  not  here  — 
I  haste  to  bring  her!" 

"  No,  no,  it  is  too  late ! 
Hush,  hush !  I  may  not  wait, 
Nor  weep,  nor  linger." 

IV. 

"  Hark !    Who  is  he  that  knocks 
With  slow  and  dreadful  shocks 
The  walls  to  sever  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  Master's  call, 
I  go,  whate'er  befall ; 

Farewell  forevei." 


DRINKING  SONG. 


35 


DRINKING   SONG. 

I. 

THOU  who  lov'st  and  art  forsaken, 
Didst  believe,  and  wert  mistaken, 
From  thy  dream  thou  wilt  not  waken 

When  Death  thee  shall  call. 
Like  are  infidel,  believer, — 
The  deceived,  and  the  deceiver, 

When  the  grave  hides  all. 

II. 

What  if  thou  be  saint  or  sinner, 
Crooked  gray-beard,  straight  beginner, — 
Empty  paunch,  or  jolly  dinner, 

When  Death  thee  shall  call. 
All  alike  are  rich  and  richer, 
King  with  crown,  and  cross-legged  stitcher. 

When  the  grave  hides  all. 


36  DRINKING  SONG. 

III. 

Hope  not  thou  to  live  hereafter 
In  men's  memories  and  laughter, 
When,  'twixt  hearth  and  ringing  rafter, 

Dealli  thee  shall  call. 
For  we  both  shall  be  forgotten, 
Friend,  when  thou  and  I  are  rotten 

And  the  grave  hides  alL 


DECORATION  DAY.  37 


DECORATION    DAY. 

i. 

SHE  saw  the  bayonets  flashing  in  the  sun, 

The  flags  that  proudly  waved ;  she  heard  the  bugles 

calling ; 

She  saw  the  tattered  banners  falling 
About  the  broken  staffs,  as  one  by  one 
The  remnant  of  the  mighty  army  passed; 
And  at  the  last 
Flowers  for  the  graves  of  those  whose  fight  was  done. 

n. 

She  heard  the  tramping  of  ten  thousand  feet 

As  the  long  line  swept  round  the  crowded  square ; 

She  heard  the  incessant  hum 

That  filled  the  warm  and  blossom-scented  air, — 

The  shrilling  fife,  the  roll  and  throb  of  drum, 


38  NORTH  TO  THE  SOUTH. 

The  happy  laugh,  the  cheer. —  Oh  glorious  and  meet 
To  honor  thus  the  dead, 
Who  chose  the  better  part 
And  for  their  country  bled ! 

— The  dead !  Great  God !  she  stood  there  in  the  street, 
Living,  yet  dead  in  soul  and  mind  and  heart  — 
While  far  away 

His    grave    was    decked    with    flowers    by    strangers' 
hands  to-day. 

NEW  YORK,  May  30,  1877. 


NORTH   TO   THE   SOUTH. 

LAND  of  the  South,  whose  stricken  heart  and  brow 
Bring  grief  to  eyes  that  erewhile  only  knew 

For  their  own  loss  to  sorrow, —  spurn  not  thou 
These  tribute  tears, —  ah,  we  have  suffered  too. 

NEW  ORLEANS,  1885. 


THE  DEAD   COMRADE. 
THE    DEAD    COMRADE. 

At  the  burial  of  Grant,  a  bugler  stood  forth  and  sounded  "taps. 
I. 

COME,  soldiers,  arouse  ye ! 
Another  has  gone; 
Let  us  bury  our  comrade, 
His  battles  are  done. 
His  sun  it  is  set; 
He  was  true,  he  was  brave, 
He  feared  not  the  grave, 
There  is  nought  to  regret. 

n. 

Bring  music  and  banners 
And  wreaths  for  his  bier, — 
No  fault  of  the  fighter 
That  Death  conquered  here. 

Bring  him  home  ne'er  to  rove, 
Bear  him  home  to  his  rest, 
And  over  his  breast 
Fold  the  flag  of  his  love. 


THE  DEAD   COMRADE. 

III. 

Great  Captain  of  battles, 
We  leave  him  with  thee ! 
What  was  wrong,  O  forgive  it; 
His  spirit  make  free. 

Sound  taps,  and  away! 
Out  lights,  and  to  bed  ! 
Farewell,  soldier  dead ! 
Farewell  —  for  a  day. 


p- 


PORTO  FINO.  41 

PORTO   FINO. 

I  KNOW  a  girl  —  she  is  a  poet's  daughter, 

And  many-mooded  as  a  poet's  day, 
And  changing  as  the  Mediterranean  water; 

We  walked  together  by  an  emerald  bay, 

So  deep,  so  green,  so  promontory-hidden 
That  the  lost  mariner  might  peer  in  vain 

Through  storms,  to  find  where  he  erewhile  had  ridden, 
Safe-sheltered  from  the  wild  and  windy  main. 

Down  the  high  stairs  we  clambered  just  to  rest  a 
Cool  moment  in  the  church's  antique  shade. 

How  gay  the  aisles  and  altars!    'Twas  the  festa 
Of  brave  Saint  George  who  the  old  dragon  laid. 

How  bright  the  little  port !     The  red  flags  fluttered, 
Loud  clanged  the  bells,  and  loud  the  children's  glee : 
What  though  some  distant,  unseen  storm-cloud  mut 
tered, 

And  waves  breathed  big  along  the  weedy  quay. 
8 


4 2  PORTO  FINO. 

We  climbed  the  hill  whose  rising  cleaves  asunder 
Green  bay  and  blue  immeasurable  sea; 

We  heard  the  breakers  at  its  bases  thunder; 

We  heard  the  priests'  harsh  chant  soar  wild  and  free. 

Then  through  the  graveyard's  straight  and  narrow  portal 
Our  journey  led.  How  dark  the  place  !  How  strange 

Its  steep,  black  mountain  walls, —  as  if  the  immortal 
Spirit  could  thus  be  stayed  its  skyward  range ! 

Beyond,  the  smoky  olives  clothed  the  mountains 
In  green  that  grew  through  many  a  moon-lit  night. 

Below,  down  cleft  and  chasm  leaped  snowy  fountains ; 
Above,  the  sky  was  warm,  and  blue,  and  bright ; 

When,  sudden,  from  out  a  fair  and  smiling  heaven 
Burst  forth  the  rain,  quick  as  a  trumpet-blare : 

Yet  still  the  Italian  sun  each  drop  did  leaven, 
And  turned  the  rain  to  diamonds  in  the  air. 

So  passed  the  day  in  shade,  and  shower,  and  sun, 
Like  thine  own  moods,  thou   sweet  and   changeful 
maiden  ! 

Great  Heaven !  deal  kindly  with  this  gentle  one, 
Nor  let  her  soul  too  heavily  be  laden. 


A   MADONNA    OF  FRA  LIPPO  LI  PPL 


43 


A   MADONNA   OF    FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI. 

No  HEAVENLY  maid  we  here  behold, 
Though  round  her  brow  a  ring  of  gold; 
This  baby,  solemn-eyed  and  sweet, 
Is  human  all  from  head  to  feet. 

Together  close  her  palms  are  prest 
In  worship  of  that  godly  guest : 
But  glad  her  heart  and  unafraid 
While  on  her  neck  his  hand  is  laid. 

Two  children,  happy,  laughing,  gay, 
Uphold  the  little  child  in  play  : 
Not  flying  angels  these,  what  though 
Four  wings  from  their  four  shoulders  grow. 

Fra  Lippo,  we  have  learned  from  thee 

A  lesson  of  humanity  : 

To  every  mother's  heart  forlorn, 

In  every  house  the  Christ  is  born. 


44  ESSIPOFF. 


ESSIPOFF. 


WHAT  is  her  playing  like  ? 

I  ask — while  dreaming  here  under  her  music's  power. 
Tis  like  the  leaves  of  the  dark  passion-flower 
Which  grows  on  a  strong  vine  whose  roots,  oh  deep 

they  sink, 
Deep  in  the  ground,  that  flower 's  pure  life  to  drink. 

ii. 

What  is  her  playing  like  ? 

'Tis  like  a  bird 

Who,  singing  in  a  wild  wood,  never  knows 

That  its  lone  melody  is  heard 

By  wandering  mortal,  who  forgets  his  heavy  woes. 


"WE  MET  UPON  THE  CROWDED  WAY."       45 
"WE   MET  UPON   THE   CROWDED  WAY." 


WE  met  upon  the  crowded  way ; 

We  spoke  and  passed.     How  bright  the  day 

Turned  from  that  moment,  for  a  light 

Did  shine  from  her  to  make  it  bright! 

And  then  I  asked :    Can  such  as  she 

From  life  be  blotted  utterly? 

The  thoughts  from  those  clear  eyes  that  dawn  — 

Down  to  the  ground  can  they  be  drawn  ? 

II. 

Among  the  mighty  who  can  find 

One  that  hath  a  perfect  mind  ? 

Angry,  jealous,  cursed  by  feuds, — 

They  own  the  sway  of  fatal  moods; 

But  thou  dost  perfect  seem  to  me 

In  thy  divine  simplicity. 

Though  from  the  heavens  the  stars  be  wrenched, 

Thy  light,  dear  maid,  shall  not  be  quenched. 

Gentle,  and  true,  and  pure,  and  free  — 

The  gods  will  not  abandon  thee ! 


46  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 


FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

(TO  BE  READ  ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS  AFTER.) 

A  CENTURY'S  summer  breezes  shook 
The  maple  shadows  on  the  grass 

Since  she  who  owned  this  ancient  book 
From  the  green  world  to  heaven  did  pass. 

Beside  a  northern  lake  she  grew, 
A  wild-flower  on  its  craggy  walls ; 

Her  eyes  were  mingled  gray  and  blue, 
Like  waves  where  summer  sunlight  falls. 

Cheerful  from  morn  to  evening-close, 
No  humblest  work,  no  prayer  forgot: 

Yet  who  of  woman  born  but  knows 
The  sorrows  of  our  mortal  lot! 

And  she  too  suffered,  though  the  wound 
Was  hidden  from  the  general  gaze, 


STREPHON  AND  SARDON.  47 

And  most  from  those  who  thus  had  found 
An  added  burden  for  their  days. 

She  had  no  special  grace,  nor  art; 

Her  riches  not  in  banks  were  kept : 
Her  treasure  was  a  gentle  heart, 

Her  skill  to  comfort  those  who  wept. 

Not  without  foes  her  days  were  passed, 
For  quick  her  burning  scorn  was  fanned. 

Her  friends  were  many  —  least  and  last, 
A  poet  from  a  distant  land. 


STREPHON   AND   SARDON. 

"  YOUNG  Strephon  wears  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve," 
Thus  wizened  Sardon  spoke,  with  scoffing  air  • 

Perhaps  'twas  envy  made  the  gray-beard  grieve  — 
For  Sardon  never  had  a  heart  to  wear. 


48  THE  POET'S  PROTEST, 


THE   POET'S   PROTEST. 

O  MAN  with  your  rule  and  measure, 

Your  tests  and  analyses! 
You  may  take  your  empty  pleasure, 

May  kill  the  pine,  if  you  please;  . 
You  may  count  the  rings  and  the  seasons, 

May  hold  the  sap  to  the  sun, 
You  may  guess  at  the  ways  and  the  reasons 

Till  your  little  day  is  done. 

But  for  me  the  golden  crest 

That  shakes  in  the  wind  and  launches 
Its  spear  toward  the  reddening  West! 

For  me  the  bough  and  the  breeze, 
The  sap  unseen,  and  the  glint 

Of  light  on  the  dew- wet  branches, — 
The  hiding  shadows,  the  hint 

Of  the  soul  of  mysteries. 


WANTED,  A    THEME.  49 

You  may  sound  the  sources  of  life, 

And  prate  of  its  aim  and  scope; 
You  may  search  with  your  chilly  knife 

Through  the  broken  heart  of  hope. 
But  for  me  the  love-sweet  breath, 

And  the  warm,  white  bosom  heaving, 
And  never  a  thought  of  death, 

And  only  the  bliss  of  living. 


WANTED,    A    THEME! 

"  GIVE  me  a  theme,"  the  little  poet  cried, 

"And  I  will  do  my  part." 
"  'T  is  not  a  theme  you  need,"  the  world  replied ; 

"  You  need  a  heart." 


5° 


"  WHEN  THE  TRUE  POET  COMES." 


"WHEN   THE   TRUE   POET   COMES." 

"  WHEN  the  true  poet  comes,  how  shall  we  know  him  ? 

By  what  clear  token, —  manners,  language,  dress  ? 
Or  will  a  voice  from  heaven  speak  and  show  him, — 

Him  the  swift  healer  of  the  earth's  distress  ? 
Tell  us,  that  when  the  long-expected  comes 

At  last,  with  mirth  and  melody  and  singing, 
We  him  may  greet  with  banners,  beat  of  drums, 

Welcome  of  men  and  maids  and  joybells  ringing : 
And,  for  this  poet  of  ours, 
Laurels  and  flowers." 

Thus  shall  ye  know  him,  this  shall  be  his  token, — 
Manners  like  other  men,  an  unstrange  gear, 

His  speech  not  musical,  but  harsh  and  broken 
Will  sound  at  first,  each  line  a  driven  spear. 


TO  A    YOUNG  POET.  51 

For  he  will  sing  as  in  the  centuries  olden, 

Before  mankind  its  earliest  fire  forgot  — 

Yet  whoso  listens  long  hears  music  golden. 

—  How  shall  ye  know  him  ?    Ye  shall  know  him  not 
Till,  ended  hate  and  scorn, 
To  the  grave  he's  borne. 


TO   A  YOUNG   POET. 

IN  the  morning  of  the  skies 
I  heard  a  lark  arise. 
On  the  first  day  of  the  year 
A  wood-flower  did  appear. 

Like  a  violet,  like  a  lark, 
Like  the  dawn  that  kills  the  dark, 
Like  a  dew-drop,  trembling,  clinging, 
Is  the  poet's  first  sweet  singing. 


DESECRA  TION. 


DESECRATION. 

THE  poet  died  last  night ; 

Outworn  his  mortal  frame. 
He  hath  fought  well  the  fight, 

And  won  a  deathless  name. 

Bring  laurel  for  his  bier, 

And  flowers  to  deck  the  hearse. 
The  tribute  of  a  tear 

To  his  immortal  verse. 

Hushed  is  that  piercing  strain, — 
Who  heard,  for  pleasure  wept. 

His  were  our  joy  and  pain  : 
He  sang  —  our  sorrow  slept 

Yes,  weep  for  him ;   no  more 

Shall  such  high  songs  have  birth 

Gone  is  the  harp  he  bore 
Forever  from  the  earth. 


DESECRA  TION.  53 

Weep,  weep,  and  scatter  flowers 

Above  his  precious  dust : 
Child  of  the  heavenly  powers, — 

Divine,  and  pure,  and  just. 

Weep,  weep  —  for  when  to-night 

Doth  hoot  the  horned  owl, 
Beneath  the  pale  moon's  light 

The  human  ghouls  will  prowl. 

What  creatures  those  will  throng 

Within  the  sacred  gloom, 
To  do  our  poet  wrong  — 

To  break  the  sealed  tomb  ? 

Not  the  great  world  and  gay 

That  pities  not,  nor  halts 
By  thoughtless  night  or  day  — 

But,  O  more  sordid-false, 

His  trusted  friend  and  near, 

To  whom  his  spirit  moved; 
The  brother  he  held  dear; 

The  woman  that  he  loved. 


54 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 


YOUTH   AND   AGE. 


"  I  LIKE  your  book,  my  boy, 
Tis  fall  of  youth  and  joy, 
And  love  that  sings  and  dreams. 
Yet  it  puzzles  me,"  he  said ; 
"  A  string  of  pearls  it  seems, — 
But  I  cannot  find  the  thread." 

n. 

"  O  friend  of  olden  days ! 
Dear  to  me  is  your  praise : 
But,  many  and  many  a  year 
You  must  go  back,  I  fear; 
You  must  journey  back,"  I  said, 
"To  find  that  golden  thread!" 


OUR  ELDER  POETS. 

OUR   ELDER   POETS. 

(1878.) 

HE  is  gone.     We  shall  not  see  again 
That  reverend  form,  those  silver  locks; 

Silent  at  last  the  iron  pen 

And  words  that  poured  like  molten  rocks. 

He  is  gone,  and  we  who  thought  him  cold 
Miss  from  our  lives  a  generous  heat, 

And  know  that  stolid  form  did  hold 
A  fire  that  burned,  a  heart  that  beat. 

He  is  gone,  but  other  bards  remain  : 
Our  gray-old  prophet,  young  at  heart, 

Our  scholar-poet's  patriot  strain  ; 
And  he  of  the  wise  and  mellow  art. 

And  he  who  first  to  science  sought, 

But  to  the  merry  muses  after; 
Who  learned  a  secret  never  taught — 

The  knowledge  of  men's  tears  and  laughter. 


55 


S6  OUR  ELDER  POETS. 

He  also  in  whose  music  rude 

Our  peopled  woods  and  prairies  speak, 
Resounding,  in  his  modern  mood, 

The  tragic  fury  of  the  Greek. 

And  he,  too,  lingers  round  about 
The  darling  city  of  his  birth  — 

The  bard  whose  gray  eyes  looking  out 
Find  scarce  one  peer  in  all  the  earth. 


TO  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND.  57 

TO   AN    ENGLISH   FRIEND, 
WITH  EMERSON'S  "POEMS." 

EDMUND,  in  this  book  you'll  find 

Music  from  a  prophet's  mind. 

Even  when  harsh  the  numbers  be, 

There's  an  inward  melody; 

And  when  sound  is  one  with  sense, 

'Tis  a  bird's  song  —  sweet,  intense. 

Chide  me  not  the  book  is  small, 

For  in  it  lies  our  all  in  all : 

We  who  in  Eldorado  live 

Have  no  better  gift  to  give. 

When  no  more  is  silver  mill, 

Golden  stream,  or  golden  hill  — 

Search  the  New  World  from  pole  to  pole, 

Here  you'll  find  its  very  soul ! 


S8  "JOCOSERIA." 


"  JOCOSERIA." 

MEN  grow  old  before  their  time, 
With  the  journey  half  before  them : 

In  languid  rhyme 
They  deplore  them. 

Life  up-gathers  carks  and  cares, 
So  good-bye  to  maid  and  lover  ! 

Find  three  gray  hairs, 
And  cry,  "All's  over!" 

Look  at  Browning !    How  he  keeps 

In  the  seventies  still  a  heart 
That  never  sleeps, — 

Still  an  art 

Full  of  youth's  own  grit  and  power, 
Thoughts  we  deemed  to  boys  belonging,- 

The  spring-time's  flower, 
Love-and-longing. 


THE  MODERN  RHYMER. 


THE    MODERN    RHYMER. 


Now  YOU  who  rhyme,  and  I  who  rhyme, 

Have  not  we  sworn  it,  many  a  time, 

That  we  no  more  our  verse  would  scrawl, 

For  Shakespeare  he  had  said  it  all! 

And  yet  whatever  others  see 

The  earth  is  fresh  to  you  and  me  — 

And  birds  that  sing,  and  winds  that  blow, 

And  blooms  that  make  the  country  glow, 

And  lusty  swains,  and  maidens  bright, 

And  clouds  by  day,  and  stars  by  night, 

And  all  the  pictures  in  the  skies 

That  passed  before  Will  Shakespeare's  eyes; 

Love,  hate,  and  scorn, —  frost,  fire,  and  flower,- 

On  us  as  well  as  him  have  power. 

Go  to!  our  spirits  shall  not  be  laid, 

Silenced  and  smothered  by  a  shade. 

Avon  is  not  the  only  stream 


59 


60  THE  MODERN  RHYMER. 

Can  make  a  poet  sing  and  dream; 
Nor  are  those  castles,  queens,  and  kings 
The  height  of  sublunary  things. 

ii. 

Beneath  the  false  moon's  pallid  glare, 
By  the  cool  fountain  in  the  square 
(This  gray-green  dusty  square  they  set 
Where  two  gigantic  highways  met) 
We  hear  a  music  rare  and  new, 
Sweet  Shakespeare,  was  not  known  to  you! 
You  saw  the  New  World's  sun  arise : 
High  up  it  shines  in  our  own  skies. 
You  saw  the  ocean  from  the  shore : 
Through  mid-seas  now  our  ship  doth  roar,- 
A  wild,  new,  teeming  world  of  men 
That  wakens  in  the  poet's  brain 
Thoughts  that  were  never  thought  before 
Of  hope,  and  longing,  and  despair, 
Wherein  man's  never  resting  race 
Westward,  still  westward,  on  doth  fare, 
Doth  still  subdue,  and  still  aspire, 


THE  MODERN  RHYMER. 

Or  turning  on  itself  doth  face 

Its  own  indomitable  fire, — 

O  million-centuried  thoughts  that  make 

The  Past  ssem  but  a  shallop's  wake ! 


61 


BALLADS. 


THE   RIVER    INN. 

r I^HE  night  was  black  and  drear 

A     Of  the  last  day  of  the  year. 
Two  guests  to  the  river  inn 
Came,  from  the  wide  world's  bound: 
One  with  clangor  and  din, 
The  other  without  a  sound. 

"  Now  hurry,  servants  and  host ! 
Get  the  best  that  your  cellars  boast : 
White  be  the  sheets  and  fine, 
And  the  fire  on  the  hearth-stone  bright ; 
Pile  the  wood,  and  spare  not  the  wine, 
And  call  him  at  morning-light." 
ii  65 


66  THE  RIVER  INN. 

4i  But  where  is  the  silent  guest  ? 

In  what  chamber  shall  she  rest? 

In  this!     Should  she  not  go  higher? 

'Tis  damp,  and  the  fire  is  gone." 
"  You  need  not  kindle  the  fire, 

You  need  not  call  her  at  dawn." 

Next  morn  he  sallied  forth 
On  his  journey  to  the  North. 
Oh,  bright  the  sunlight  shone 
Through  boughs  that  the  breezes  stir; 
But  for  her  was  lifted  a  stone 
Under  the  church-yard  fir. 


THE    WHITE  AND    THE  RED  ROSE.  6^ 

THE    WHITE   AND   THE    RED    ROSE. 
i. 

IN  Heaven's  happy  bowers 
There  blossom  two  flowers, 
One  with  fiery  glow 
And  one  as  white  as  snow; 
While  lo!  before  them  stands, 
With  pale  and  trembling  hands, 
A  spirit  who  must  choose 
One,  and  one  refuse. 

n. 

Oh,  tell  me  of  these  flowers 
That  bloom  in  heavenly  bowers, 
One  with  fiery  glow, 
And  one  as  white  as  snow ! 
And  tell  me  who  is  this 
In  Heaven's  holy  bliss 
Who  trembles  and  who  cries 
Like  a  mortal  soul  that  dies ! 


68  THE    WHITE  AND    THE  RED  ROSE. 

IIL 

These  blossoms  two 
Wet  with  heavenly  dew— 
The  Gentle  Heart  is  one, 
And  one  is  Beauty's  own; 
And  the  spirit  here  that  stands 
With  pale  and  trembling  hands — 
Before  to-morrow's  morn 
Will  be  a  child  new-born, 
Will  be  a  mortal  maiden 
With  earthly  sorrows  laden; 
But  of  these  shining  flowers 
That  bloom  in  heavenly  bowers, 
To-day  she  still  may  choose 
One,  and  one  refuse. 

IV. 

Will  she  pluck  the  crimson  flower 
And  win  Beauty's  dower  ? 
Will  she  choose  the  better  part 


THE    WHITE  AND    THE  RED  ROSE.  69 

And  gain  the  Gentle  Heart  ? 
Awhile  she  weeping  waits 
Within  those  pearly  gates; 
Alas!  the  mortal  maiden 
With  earthly  sorrow  laden  ; 
Her  tears  afresh  they  start, — 
She  has  chosen  the  Gentle  Heart. 


v. 

And  now  the  spirit  goes, 

In  her  breast  the  snow-white  rose. 

When  hark !  a  voice  that  calls 

Within  the  garden  walls: 

"Thou  didst  choose  the  better  part, 

Thou  hast  won  the  Gentle  Heart, — 

Lo,  now  to  thee  is  given 

The  red  rose  of  Heaven." 


JOHN  CARMAN. 


JOHN    CARMAN. 

i. 
JOHN  CARMAN  of  Carmantown 

Worked  hard  through  the  livelong  day; 
He  drove  his  awl  and  he  snapped  his  thread 

And  he  had  but  little  to  say. 

He  had  but  little  to  say 

Except  to  a  neighbor's  child : 
Three  summers  old  she  was,  and  her  eyes 
.  Had  a  look  that  was  deep  and  wild. 

Her  hair  was  heavy  and  brown 

Like  clouds  in  a  starry  night. 
She  came  and  sat  by  the  cobbler's  bench 

And  his  soul  was  filled  with  delight. 

No  kith  nor  kin  had  he 

And  he  never  went  gadding  about; 
A  strange,  shy  man,  the  people  said; 

They  could  not  make  him  out. 


JOHN  CARMAN. 

And  some  of  them  shook  their  heads 

And  would  never  tell  what  they'd  heard. 

But  he  drove  his  awl  and  snapped  his  thread,- 
And  he  always  kept  his  word ; 

And  the  little  child  that  knew  him 

Better  than  all  the  rest, 
She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck 

And  went  to  sleep  on  his  breast. 

One  day  in  that  dreadful  summer 
When  children  died  by  the  score, 

John  Carman  glanced  from  his  work  and  saw 
Her  mother  there  at  the  door. 

He  knew  by  the  look  on  her  face, — 
And  his  own  turned  deathly  white ; 

He  rose  from  his  bench  and  followed  her  out 
And  watched  by  the  child  that  night. 

He  tended  her  day  and  night; 

He  watched  by  her  night  and  day : 
He  saw  the  cruel  pain  in  her  eyes; 

He  saw  her  lips  turn  gray. 


72  JOHN  CARMAN. 


II. 


The  day  that  the  child  was  buried 
John  Carman  went  back  to  his  last, 

And  the  neighbors  said  that  for  weeks  and  weeks 
Not  a  word  his  clenched  lips  passed. 

"  He  takes  it  hard,"  they  gossiped, 
"  Poor  man,  he's  lacking  in  wit "  :  — 

"  I'll  drop  in  to-day,"  said  Deacon  Gray, 
"  And  comfort  him  up  a  bit." 

So  Deacon  Gray  dropped  in 

With  a  kind  and  neighborly  air, 
And  before  he  left  he  knelt  on  the  floor 

And  wrestled  with  God  in  prayer. 

And  he  said :  "  O  Lord,  thou  hast  stricken 

This  soul  in  its  babyhood: 
In  Thy  own  way,  we  beseech  and  pray, 

Bring  forth  from  evil  good." 


JOHN  CARMAN. 


III. 


That  night  the  fire-bells  rang 

And  the  flames  shot  up  to  the  sky, 

And  into  the  street  as  pale  as  a  sheet 
The  town-folk  flock  and  cry. 

The  bells  ring  loud  and  long, 
The  flames  leap  high  and  higher, 

The  rattling  engines  come  too  late,  — 
The  old  First  Church  is  on  fire! 

And  lo  and  behold  in  the  lurid  glare 
They  see  John  Carman  stand,  — 

A  look  of  mirth  on  his  iron  lips 
And  a  blazing  torch  in  his  hand. 

"  You  say  it  was  He  who  killed  her  " 
(  His  voice  had  a  fearful  sound)  : 

"  I'd  have  you  know,  who  love  Him  so, 
I've  burned  his  house  to  the  ground." 
12 


74 


JOHN  CARMAN. 


John  Carman  died  in  prison, 

In  the  madman's  cell,  they  say; 

And  from  his  crime,  that  I've  told  in  rhyme, 
Heaven  cleanse  his  soul,  I  pray. 


AT  FOUR-SCORE. 


75 


AT   FOUR-SCORE. 

THIS  is   the  house  she  was   born   in,  full   four-score 

years  ago, — 
And  here  she  is  living   still,  bowed  and  ailing,  but 

clinging 
Still  to  this  wonted  life, —  like  an  ancient  and  blasted 

oak-tree, 
Whose  dying  roots  yet  clasp  the  ground  with  an  iron 

hold. 

This  is  the  house  she  was  born  in,  and  yonder  across 

the  bay 
Is  the  home  her  lover  built, —  for  her  and  for  him  and 

their  children; 
Daily  she  watched  it  grow,  from  dawn  to  the  evening 

twilight, 
As  it  rose  on  the  orchard  hill,  'mid  the  spring-time 

showers  and  bloom. 


76  AT  FOUR-SCORE. 

There    is    the    village    church,    its   steeple    over   the 

trees 
Rises  and  shows  the  clock  she  has  watched  since  the 

day  it  was  started, — 
'Tis     many    a    year    ago,    how    many    she     cannot 

remember : 
Now  solemnly  over  the  water  rings  out  the  evening 

hour. 

And  there  in  that  very  church, —  though,  alas,  how 

bedizened,  and  changed! 
They've  painted  it  up,  she  says,  in  their  queer,  new, 

modern  fashion, — 
There  on  a  morning  in  June,  she  gave  her  hand  to  her 

husband ; 
Her  heart  it  was  his  (she  told  him)  long  years  and 

years  before. 

Now  here  she  sits  at  the  window,  gazing  out  on  steeple 

and  hill; 
All  but  the  houses  have  gone, —  the  church,  and  the 

trees,  and  the  houses; — 


AT  FOUR-SCORE.  77 

All,  all  have  gone  long  since,  parents,  and  husband, 

and  children ; 
And  herself — she  thinks,  at  times,  she  too  has  vanished 

and  gone. 

No,  it  cannot  be  she  who  stood  in  the  church   that 

morning  in  June, 
Nor  she  who  felt  at  her  breast  the  lips  of  a  child  in 

the  darkness: 
But  hark  in  the  gathering  dusk  comes  a  low,  quick 

moan  of  anguish, — 
Ah,  it  is  she  indeed,  who  has  lived,  who  has  loved, 

and  lost. 

For  she  thinks  of  a  wintry  night,  when  her  last  was 

taken  away, 
Forty  years  this  very  month,  the  last,  the  fairest,  the 

dearest ; 
All  gone, — ah,  yes,  it  is  she  who  has  loved,  who  has 

lost,  and  suffered, 
She  and  none  other  it  is,  left  alone  in  her  sorrow  and 

pain. 


7 8  AT  FOUR-SCORE. 

Still  with  its  sapless  roots,  that  stay  though  the  branches 

have  dropped, 
Have  withered,  and  fallen,  and  gone,  their  strength 

and  their  glory  forgotten; 
Still  with  the  life  that  remains,  silent,  and  faithful,  and 

steadfast, 
Through  sunshine  and  bending  storm  clings  the  oak 

to  its  mother-earth. 


THE  BALLAD   OF   THE   CHIMNEY. 


79 


THE    BALLAD    OF   THE    CHIMNEY. 


MY  chimney  is  builded 

On  a  hill  by  the  sea, 

At  the  edge  of  a  wood 

That  the  sunset  has  gilded 

Since  time  was  begun 

And  the  earth  first  was  done: 

For  mine  and  for  me 

And  for  you,  John  Burroughs, 

My  friend  old  and  good, 

At  the  edge  of  a  wood 

On  a  hill  by  the  sea 

My  chimney  is  builded. 


8o  THE  BALLAD   OF  THE   CHIMNEY. 

II. 

My  chimney  gives  forth 
All  its  heat  to  the  north, 
While  its  right  arm  it  reaches 
Toward  the  meadows  and  beaches; 
And  its  left  it  extends 
To  its  pine-tree  friends. 
All  its  heat  to  the  north 
My  chimney  gives  forth. 


in. 

My  chimney  is  builded 

Of  red  and  gray  granite: 

Of  great  split  bowlders 

Are  its  thighs  and  its  shoulders; 

Its  mouth  —  try  to  span  it. 

'Tis  a  nine-foot  block  — 
The  shelf  that  hangs  over 
The  stout  hearth-rock. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  THE   CHIMNEY.  81 

Then  the  lines  they  upswell 
Like  a  huge  church-bell, 
Or  a  bellying  sail 
In  a  stiff  south  gale 
When  the  ship  rolls  well, 
With  a  blue  sky  above  her. 


IV. 

My  chimney  —  come  view  it, 
And  I'll  tell  you,  John  Burroughs, 
What  is  built  into  it : 
First  the  derrick's  shrill  creak, 
That  perturbed  the  still  air 
With  a  cry  of  despair; 
The  lone  traveler  who  passed 
At  the  fall  of  the  night 
If  he  saw  not  its  mast 
Stood  still  with  affright 
At  a  sudden  strange  sound  — 
Hark!  a  woman's  wild  shriek? 
Or  the  baying  of  a  hound? 
13 


82      THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CHIMNEY. 

Then  the  stone-hammer's  clink 
And  the  drill's  sharp  tinkle, 
And  bird-songs  that  sprinkle 
Their  notes  through  the  wood, 
(With  pine-odors  scented), 
On  their  swift  way  to  drink 
At  the  spring  cold  and  good 
That  bubbles  'neath  the  stone 
Where  the  red  chieftain  tented 
In  the  days  that  are  gone. 

Yes,  'twixt  granite  and  mortar 
Many  songs,  long  or  shorter, 
Are  imprisoned,  I  repeat; 
And  when  red  leaves  shall  fall,— 
Coming  home,  all  in  herds, 
From  the  air  to  the  earth, — 
When  I  have  my  heart's  desire, 
And  we  sit  by  the  hearth 
In  the  glow  of  the  fire, 
You  and  I,  John  of  Birds, 
We  shall  hear  as  they  call 


THE  BALLAD   OF  THE   CHIMNEY. 

From  the  gray  granite  wall, — 
You  shall  name  one  and  all. 

There's  the  crow's  caw-cawing 
From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
And  the  cat-bird's  sawing, 
The  hissing  of  the  adder 
That  climbed  this  rocky  ladder, 
And  the  song  of  Bob  White; 
The  robin's  loud  clatter, 
The  chipmunk's  chatter, 
And  the  mellow-voiced  bell 
That  the  cuckoo  strikes  well; 
Yes,  betwixt  the  stones  and  in 
There  is  built  a  merry  din. 

But  not  all  bright  and  gay 
Are  the  songs  we  shall  hear; 
For  as  day  turns  to  gray 
Comes  a  voice  low  and  clear  — 
Whip-poor-will  sounds  his  wail 
Over  hill,  over  dale, 


84      THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CHIMNEY, 

Till  the  soul  fills  with  fright. 
'Tis  the  bird  that  was  heard 
On  the  fields  drenched  with  blood 
By  the  dark  southern  flood 
When  they  died  in  the  night. 


v. 

But  you  cannot  split  granite, 

Howsoever  you  may  plan  it, 

Without  bringing  blood  — 

(There's  a  drop  of  mine  there 

On  that  block  four-square). 

Certain  oaths,  I'm  aware, 

Sudden,  hot,  and  not  good 

(May  Heaven  cleanse  the  guilt!) 

In  these  stone  walls  are  built  — 

With  the  wind  through  the  pine-wood  blowing, 

The  creak  of  tree  on  tree, 

Child-laughter,  and  the  lowing 

Of  the  homeward-driven  cattle, 

The  sound  of  wild  birds  singing, 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CHIMNEY.      85 

Of  steel  on  granite  ringing, 

The  memory  of  battle,  , 

And  tales  of  the  roaring  sea. 

VI. 

For  my  chimney  was  builded 
By  a  Plymouth  County  sailor, 
An  old  North  Sea  whaler. 
In  the  warm  noon  spell 
'Twas  good  to  hear  him  tell 
Of  the  great  September  blow 
A  dozen  years  ago : 
How  at  dawn  of  the  day 
The  wind  began  to  play, 
Till  it  cut  the  waves  flat 
Like  the  brim  of  your  hat. 
There  was  no  sea  about, 
But  it  blew  straight  out 
Till  the  ship  lurched  over; 
But  'twas  quick  to  recover, 
When,  all  of  a  stroke, 


86      THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CHIMNEY. 

The  hurricane  it  broke ;  — 
Great  heavens!  how  it  roared, 
And  how  the  rain  poured ; 
The  thirty-fathom  chain 
Dragged  out  all  in  vain. 
"  What  next  ?  "  the  captain  cried 
To  the  mate  by  his  side; 
Then  Tip  Ryder  he  replied: 
"  Fetch  the  axe  —  no  delay  — 
Cut  the  main-mast  away; 
If  you  want  to  save  the  ship 
Let  the  main-mast  rip ! " 
But  another  said,  "Wait!" 
And  they  did  —  till  too  late. 
On  her  beam- ends  she  blew, 
In  the  sea  half  the  crew  — 
Struggling  back  through  the  wrack, 
There  to  cling  day  and  night. 
Not  a  sail  heaves  in  sight; 
And,  the  worst,  one  in  thirst 
(Knows  no  better,  the  poor  lad!) 
.  Drinks  salt  water  and  goes  mad. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  THE   CHIMNEY.  87 

Eighty  hours  blown  and  tossed, 
Five  good  sailors  drowned  and  lost, 
And  the  rest  brought  to  shore; 
—  Some  to  sail  as  before; 
"  Not  Tip  Ryder,  if  he  starves 
Building  chimneys,  building  wharves ! " 

VII. 

Now  this  was  the  manner 
Of  the  building  of  the  chimney. 
('Tis  a  good  old-timer, 
As  you,  friend  John,  will  own.) 
Old  man  Vail  cut  the  stone; 
William  Ryder  was  the  builder; 
Stanford  White  was  the  planner, 
And  the  owner  and  rhymer 
Is  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


SONNETS. 


THE   SONNET. 

WHAT  is  a  sonnet  ?     'Tis  the  pearly  shell 
That  murmurs  of  the  far-off  murmuring  sea; 

A  precious  jewel  carved  most  curiously; 

It  is  a  little  picture  painted  well. 
What  is  a  sonnet  ?     'Tis  the  tear  that  fell 

From  a  great  poet's  hidden  ecstasy; 

A  two-edged  sword,  a  star,  a  song  —  ah  me! 

Sometimes  a  heavy-tolling  funeral  bell. 
This  was  the  flame  that  shook  with  Dante's  breath; 

The  solemn  organ  whereon  Milton  played, 

And  the  clear  glass  where  Shakespeare's  shadow  falls : 
A  sea  this  is  —  beware  who  ventureth ! 

For  like  a  fjord  the  narrow  floor  is  laid 

Mid-ocean  deep  to  the  sheer  mountain  walls. 


92        LONGFELLOW'S  "BOOK  OF  SONNETS." 


LONGFELLOW'S   "BOOK  OF  SONNETS." 

'TWAS  Sunday  evening  as  I  wandered  down 
The  central  highway  of  this  swarming  place, 
And  felt  a  pleasant  stillness, — not  a  trace 
Of  Saturday's  harsh  turmoil  in  the  town : 

Then  as  a  gentle  breeze  just  stirs  a  gown, 
Yet  almost  motionless,  or  as  the  face 
Of  silence  smiles,  I  heard  the  chimes  of  "  Grace  " 
Sound    murmuring  through  the   autumn    evening's 
brown. 

To-day,  again,  I  passed  along  Broadway 
In  the  fierce  tumult  and  mid-noise  of  noon, 
While  'neath  my  feet  the  solid  pavement  shook; 

When  lo !  it  seemed  that  bells  began  to  play 
Upon  a  Sabbath  eve  a  silver  tune, — 
For  as  I  walked  I  read  the  poet's  book. 


THE  NEW  TROUBADOURS. 


93 


THE    NEW   TROUBADOURS. 

(AVIGNON,    1879.) 

THEY  said  that  all  the  troubadours  had  flown, — 
No  bird  to  flash  a  wing  or  swell  a  throat! 
But  as  we  journeyed  down  the  rushing  Rhone 
To  Avignon,  what  joyful  note  on  note 

Burst  forth  beneath  thy  shadow,  O  Ventour ! 
Whose  eastward  forehead  takes  the  dawn  divine: 
Ah,  dear  Provence !   ah,  happy  troubadour, 
And  that  sweet,  mellow,  antique  song  of  thine ! 

First  Roumanille,  the  leader  of  the  choir, 

Then  graceful  Matthieu,  tender,  sighing,  glowing, 
Then  Wyse  all  fancy,  Aubanel  all  fire, 

And  Mistral,  mighty  as  the  north-wind's  blowing; 
And  youthful  Gras,  and  lo!  among  the  rest 
A  mother-bird  who  sang  above  her  nest. 


94  A   SONNET  OF  DANTE. 


A   SONNET   OF   DANTE. 
("Tanfo  gentile  e  tanto  ones  fa  pare") 

So  HIGH  and  pure  my  lady  as  she  doth  go 
Upon  her  way,  and  others  doth  salute, 
That  every  tongue  becometh  trembling-mute, 
And  every  eye  is  troubled  by  that  glow. 

Her  praise  she  hears  as  on  she  moveth  slow, 
Clothed  with  humility  as  with  a  suit; 
She  seems  a  thing  that  came  (without  dispute) 
From  heaven  to  earth  a  miracle  to  show. 

Through  eyes  that  gaze  on  her  benignity 
There  passes  to  the  heart  a  sense  so  sweet 
That  none  can  understand  who  may  not  prove; 

And  from  her  countenance  there  seems  to  move 
A  gentle  spirit,  with  all  love  replete, 
That  to  the  soul  comes,  saying,  "  Sigh,  O  sigh !  " 


A   RIDDLE   OF  LOVERS. 


95 


A    RIDDLE    OF    LOVERS. 

OF  my  fair  lady's  lovers  there  were  two 

Who  loved  her  more  than  all ;  nor  she,  nor  they 
Guessed  which  of  these  loved  better,  for  one  way 
This  had  of  loving,  that  another  knew. 

One  round  her  neck  brave  arms  of  empire  threw 
And  covered  her  with  kisses  where  she  lay  : 
The  other  sat  apart,  nor  did  betray 
Sweet  sorrow  at  that  sight;  but  rather  drew 

His  pleasure  of  his  lady  through  the  soul 
And  sense  of  this  one.     So  there  truly  ran 
Two  separate  loves  through  one  embrace ;  the  whole 

This  lady  had  of  both,  when  one  began 

To  clasp  her  close,  and  win  her  dear  lips'  goal. 
Now  read  my  lovers'  riddle  if  you  can. 


g6  "WHEN  LOVE  DAWNED:' 


"WHEN    LOVE    DAWNED." 

WHEN  love  dawned  on  that  world  which  is  my  mind, 
Then  did  the  outer  world  wherein  I  went 
Suffer  a  sudden  strange  transfigurement. — 
It  was  as  if  new  sight  were  given  the  blind. 

Then  where  the  shore  to  the  wide  sea  inclined 
I  watched  with  new  eyes  the  new  sun's  ascent : 
My  heart  was  stirred  within  me  as  I  leant 
And  listened  to  a  voice  in  every  wind. 

O  purple  sea !    O  joy  beyond  control ! 

O  land  of  love  and  youth  !   O  happy  throng ! 
Were  ye  then  real,  or  did  ye  only  seem  ? 

Dear  is  that  morning  twilight  of  the  soul, — 
The  mystery,  the  waking  voice  of  song, — 
For  now  I  know  it  was  not  all  a  dream. 


CONGRESS:  1878.  97 


CONGRESS:   1878. 

TWAS  in  the  year  when  mutterings,  loud  and  deep, 
From  the  roused  beast  were  heard  in  all  the  land, 
And  grave  men  questioned:  "  Can  the  State  withstand 
The  shock  and  strain  to  come  ?  Oh,  will  she  keep 

Firm  her  four  walls,  should  the  wild  creature  leap 
To  ruin  and  ravish  ?     Will  her  pillars  planned 
By  the  great  dead,  lean  then  to  either  hand  ? 
The  dead!   would  heaven  they  might  awake  from 
sleep ! " 

Haply  (I  thought),  our  Congress  still  may  hold 
One  voice  of  power, —  when  lo !  upon  the  blast 
A  sound  like  jackals  ravening  to  and  fro. 

Great  God !     And  has  it  come  to  this  at  last  ? 
Such  noise,  such  shame,  where  once,  not  long  ago, 
The  pure  and  wise  their  living  thoughts  outrolled. 


A   PORTRAIT  OF  SERVETUS. 


A   PORTRAIT   OF   SERVETUS. 

THOU  grim  and  haggard  wanderer  who  dost  look 
With  haunting  eyes  forth  from  the  narrow  page, — 
I  know  what  fires  consumed  with  inward  rage 
Thy  broken  frame,  what  tempests  chilled  and  shook  ! 

Ah,  could  not  thy  remorseless  foeman  brook 

Time's  sure  devourment,  but  must  needs  assuage 

His  anger  in  thy  blood,  and  blot  the  age 

With  that  dark  crime  which  virtue's  semblance  took ! 

Servetus!  that  which  slew  thee  lives  to-day, 
Though  in  new  forms  it  taints  our  modern  air ; 
Still  in  heaven's  name  the  deeds  of  hell  are  done : 

Still  on  the  high-road,  'neath  the  noon-day  sun, 
The  fires  of  hate  are  lit  for  them  who  dare 
Follow  their  Lord  along  the  untrodden  way. 


MODJESKA. 


MODJESKA. 

THERE  are  four  sisters  known  to  mortals  well, 
Whose  names  are  Joy  and  Sorrow,  Death  and  Love : 
This  last  it  was  who  did  my  footsteps  move 
To  where  the  other  deep-eyed  sisters  dwell. 

To-night,  or  ere  yon  painted  curtain  fell, 
These,  one  by  one,  before  my  eyes  did  rove 
Through  the  brave  mimic  world  that  Shakespeare  wove. 
Lady  !    thy  art,  thy  passion  were  the  spell 

That  held  me,  and  still  holds ;    for  thou  dost  show, 
With  those  most  high  each  in  his  sovereign  art, — 
Shakespeare  supreme,  and  mighty  Angelo, — 

Great  art  and  passion  are  one.     Thine  too  the  part 
To  prove,  that  still  for  him  the  laurels  grow 
Who  reaches  through  the  mind  to  pluck  the  heart. 


ioo  XEATS. 


KEATS. 

TOUCH  not  with  dark  regret  his  perfect  fame, 
Sighing,  "  Had  he  but  lived  he  had  done  so ; " 
Or,  "Were  his  heart  not  eaten  out  with  woe 
John  Keats  had  won  a  prouder,  mightier  name!" 

Take  him  for  what  he  was  and  did — nor  blame 
Blind  fate  for  all  he  suffered.     Thou  shouldst  know 
Souls  such  as  his  escape  no  mortal  blow  — 
No  agony  of  joy,  or  sorrow,  or  shame ! 

"Whose  name  was  writ  in  water!"  What  large  laughter 
Among  the  immortals  when  that  word  was  brought! 
Then  when  his  fiery  spirit  rose  flaming  after 

High  toward  the  topmost  heaven  of  heavens  up-caught ! 
"  All  hail !  our  younger  brother ! "  Shakespeare  said, 
And  Dante  nodded  his  imperial  head. 


AN  INSCRIPTION  IN  ROME.  IOi 

AN   INSCRIPTION    IN    ROME. 
(  PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA.) 

SOMETHING  there  is  in  Death  not  all  unkind, 
He  hath  a  gentler  aspect,  looking  back; 
For  flowers  may  bloom  in  the  dread  thunder's  track, 
And  even  the  cloud  that  struck  with  light  was  lined. 

Thus,  when  the  heart  is  silent,  speaks  the  mind; 
But  there  are  moments  when  comes  rushing,  black 
And  fierce  upon  us,  the  old,  awful  lack, 
And  Death  once  more  is  cruel,  senseless,  blind. 

So  when  I  saw  beside  a  Roman  portal 

"In  this  house  died  John  Keats" — for  tears  that 

sprung 
I  could  no  further  read.     O  bard  immortal! 

Not  for  thy  fame's  sake  —  but  so  young,  so  young ; 
Such  beauty  vanished,  spilled  such  heavenly  wine, 
All  quenched  that  power  of  deathless  song  divine ! 


102  "CALL  ME  NOT  DEAD." 


"CALL   ME   NOT   DEAD." 

CALL  me  not  dead  when  I,  indeed,  have  gone 
Into  the  company  of  the  everliving 
High  and  most  glorious  poets !    Let  thanksgiving 
Rather  be  made.     Say — "He  at  last  hath  won 

Rest  and  release,  converse  supreme  and  wise, 
Music  and  song  and  light  of  immortal  faces : 
To-day,  perhaps,  wandering  in  starry  places, 
He  hath  met  Keats,  and  known  him  by  his  eyes. 

To-morrow  (who  can  say)  Shakespeare  may  pass, — 
And  our  lost  friend  just  catch  one  syllable 
Of  that  three-centuried  wit  that  kept  so  well, — 

Or  Milton, — or  Dante,  looking  on  the  grass 
Thinking  of  Beatrice,  and  listening  still 
To  chanted  hymns  that  sound  from  the  heavenly  hill." 


TO  A   DEPARTED  FRIEND. 


103 


TO   A   DEPARTED    FRIEND. 

DEAR  friend,  who  lovedst  well  this  pleasant  life! 
One  year  ago  it  is  this  very  day 
Since  thou  didst  take  thy  uncompanioned  way 
Into  the  silent  land,  from  out  the  strife 

And  joyful  tumult  of  the  world.     The  knife 

Wherewith  that  sorrow  smote  us,  still  doth  stay, 
And  we,  to  whom  thou  daily  didst  betray 
Thy  gentle  soul,  with  faith  and  worship  rife, 

Love  thee  not  less  but  more, —  as  time  doth  go 
And  we  too  hasten  toward  that  land  unknown 
Where  those  most  dear  are  gathering  one  by  one. 

The  power  divine  that  here  did  touch  thy  heart  — 
Hath  this  withdrawn  from  thee,  where  now  thou  art  ? 
Would  thou  indeed  couldst  tell  what  thou  dost  know. 


104 


H.    H." 


"H.  H." 

I  WOULD  that  in  the  verse  she  loved  some  word, 
Not  all  unfit,  I  to  her  praise  could  frame : 
Some  word  wherein  the  memory  of  her  name 
Might  through  long  years  its  incense  still  afford. 

But  no,  her  spirit  smote  with  its  own  sword; 
Herself  has  lit  the  fire  whose  blood-red  flame 
Shall  not  be  quenched:  this  is  her  living  fame 
Who  struck  so  well  the  sonnet's  subtle  chord. 

None  who  e'er  knew  her  can  believe  her  dead; 
Though  should  she  die  they  deem  it  well  might  be 
Her  spirit  took  its  everlasting  flight 

In  summer's  glory,  by  the  sunset  sea, — 

That  onward  through  the  Golden  Gate  it  fled. 
Ah,  where  that  bright  soul  is  cannot  be  night. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  105 


LOVE   AND   DEATH. 


Now  who  can  take  from  us  what  we  have  known  — 
We  that  have  looked  into  each  other's  eyes? 
Though  sudden  night  should  blacken  all  the  skies, 
The  day  is  ours,  and  what  the  day  has  shown. 

What  we  have  seen  and  been,  hath  not  this  grown 
Part  of  our  very  selves  ?  We,  made  love-wise, 
What  power  shall  slay  our  living  memories, 
And  who  shall  take  from  us  what  is  our  own  ? 

So,  when  a  shade  of  the  last  parting  fell, 

This  thought  gave  peace,  as  he  deep  comfort  hath 
Who,  thirsting,  drinks  cool  waters  from  a  well. 

But  soon  I  felt  more  near  that  fatal  breath : 
More  near  he  drew,  till  I  his  face  could  tell, 
Till  then  unseen,  unknown,— I  looked  on  Death. 


16 


106  LOVE  AND  DEATH. 


II. 

We  know  not  where  they  tarry  who  have  died ; 
The  gate  wherein  they  entered  is  made  fast : 
No  living  mortal  hath  seen  one  who  passed 
Hither,  from  out  that  darkness  deep  and  wide. 

We  lean  on  Faith;  and  some  less  wise  have  cried, 
"  Behold  the  butterfly,  the  seed  that 's  cast ! " 
Vain  hopes  that  fall  like  flowers  before  the  blast ! 
What  man  can  look  on  Death  unterrified  ? 

Who  love  can  never  die !     They  are  a  part 
Of  all  that  lives  beneath  the  summer  sky ; 
With  the  world's  living  soul  their  souls  are  one : 

Nor  shall  they  in  vast  nature  be  undone 
And  lost  in  the  general  life.     Each  separate  heart 
Shall  live,  and  find  its  own,  and  never  die. 


"THE  EVENING  STAR."  107 


"THE   EVENING   STAR." 

THE  evening  star  trembles  and  hides  from  him 
Who  fain  would  hold  it  with  imperious  stare ; 
Yet,  to  the  averted  eye,  lo!  unaware 
It  shines  serene,  no  longer  shy  and  dim. 

Oh,  slow  and  sweet,  its  chalice  to  the  brim 

Fills  the  leaf-shadowed  grape  with  rich  and  rare 
Cool  sunshine,  caught  from  the  white  circling  air! 
Home  from  his  journey  to  the  round  world's  rim — 

Through  lonely  lands,  through  cloudy  seas  and  vext — 
At  last  the  Holy  Grail  met  Launfal's  sight. 
So  when  my  friend  lost  him  who  was  her  next 

Of  soul, — life  of  her  life, — all  day  the  fight 

Raged  with  a  dumb  and  pitiless  God.     Perplexed 
She  slept.     Heaven  sent  its  comfort  in  the  night. 


io8  COST. 


COST. 

BECAUSE  Heaven's  cost  is  Hell,  and  perfect  joy 
Hurts  as  hurts  sorrow;  and  because  we  win 
No  boon  of  grace  without  the  cost  of  sin, 
Or  suffering  born  of  sin ;  because  the  alloy 

Of  blood  but  makes  the  bliss  of  victory  brighter ; 
Because  true  worth  hath  its  sure  proof  herein — 
That  it  should  be  reproached,  and  called  akin 
To  evil  things, — black  making  white  the  whiter : 

Because  no  cost  seems  great  near  this — that  He 
Should  pay  the  ransom  wherewith  we  were  priced; 
And  none  could  name  a  darker  infamy 

Than  that  a  God  was  spit  upon — enticed 

By  those  he  came  to  save,  to  the  accursed  tree- 
For  this  I  know  that  Christ  indeed  is  Christ. 


"DAY  UNTO  DAY  UTTER ETH  SPEECH:' 


109 


"DAY    UNTO    DAY   UTTERETH    SPEECH." 

THE  speech  that  day  doth  utter,  and  the  night, 
Full  oft  to  mortal  ears  it  hath  no  sound; 
Dull  are  our  eyes  to  read  upon  the  ground 
What's  written  there;  and  stars  are  hid  by  light. 

So  when  the  dark  doth  fall,  awhile  our  sight 
Kens  the  unwonted  orbs  that  circle  round, 
Then  quick  in  sleep  our  human  sense  is  bound : 
Speechless  for  us  the  starry  heavens  and  bright. 

But  when  the  day  doth  close  there  is  one  word 
That's  writ  amid  the  sunset's  golden  embers; 
And  one  at  morn ;  by  them  our  hearts  are  stirred : 

Splendor  of  Dawn, —  and  Evening  that  remembers ; 
These  are  the  rhymes  of  God;  thus,  line  on  line, 
Our  souls  are  moved  to  thoughts  that  are  divine. 


IIO  FATHER  AND   CHILD. 


FATHER   AND    CHILD. 

BENEATH  the  deep  and  solemn  midnight  sky, 
At  this  last  verge  and  boundary  of  time 
I  stand,  and  listen  to  the  starry  chime 
That  sounds  to  the  inward  sense,  and  will  not  die. 

Now  do  the  thoughts  that  daily  hidden  lie 
Arise,  and  live  in  a  celestial  clime, — 
Unutterable  thoughts,  most  high,  sublime, 
Crossed  by  one  dread  that  frights  mortality. 

Thus,  as  I  muse,  I  hear  my  little  child 
Sob  in  its  sleep  within  the  cottage  near, — 
My  own  dear  child !  —  Gone  is  that  mortal  doubt ! 

The  Power  that  drew  our  lives  forth  from  the  wild 
Our  Father  is;  we  shall  to  him  be  dear, 
Nor  from  his  universe  be  blotted  out! 


THE   CELESTIAL  PASSION.  IXI 


THE    CELESTIAL    PASSION. 

O  WHITE  and  midnight  sky,  O  starry  bath, 
Wash  me  in  thy  pure,  heavenly,  crystal  flood: 
Cleanse  me,  ye  stars,  from  earthly  soil  and  scath  - 
Let  not  one  taint  remain  in  spirit  or  blood! 

Receive  my  soul,  ye  burning,  awful  deeps, 
Touch  and  baptize  me  with  the  mighty  power 
That  in  ye  thrills,  while  the  dark  planet  sleeps; 
Make  me  all  thine  for  one  blest,  secret  hour! 

O  glittering  host,  O  high  angelic  choir, 

Silence  each  tone  that  with  thy  music  jars ; 
Fill  me  even  as  an  urn  with  thy  white  fire 

Till  all  I  am  is  kindred  to  the  stars ! 

Make  me  thy  child,  thou  infinite,  holy  night, — 
So  shall  my  days  be  full  of  heavenly  light ! 


ODES   AND    MEDITATIVE    POEMS. 


MUSIC  AND  WORDS, 
i. 

THIS  day  I  heard  such  music  that  I  thought : 
Hath  human  speech  the  power  thus  to  be  wrought, 
Into  such  melody;  pure,  sensuous  sound, — 
Into  such  mellow,  murmuring  mazes  caught; 
Can  words  (I  said),  when  these  keen  tones  are  bound  — 
(Silent,  except  in  memory  of  this  hour)  — 
Can  human  words  alone  usurp  the  power 
Of  trembling  strings  that  thrill  to  the  very  soul, 
And  of  this  ecstasy  bring  back  the  whole  ? 

ii. 

Ah  no,  'twas  answered  in  my  inmost  heart, 
Unto  itself  sufficient  is  each  art, 
And  each  doth  utter  what  none  other  can  — 
Some  hidden  mood  of  the  large  soul  of  man. 


n6  MUSIC  AND    WORDS. 

Ah,  think  not  thou  with  words  well  intenveaved 
To  wake  the  tones  wherein  the  viol  grieved 
With  its  most  heavy  burden;  think  not  thou, 
Adventurous,  to  push  thy  shallop's  prow 
Into  that  surge  of  well-remembered  tones, — 
Striving  to  match  each  wandering  wind  that   moans, 
Each  bell  that  tolls,  and  every  bugle's  blowing 
With  some  most  fitting  word,  some  verse  bestowing 
A  never-shifting  form  on  that  which  passed 
Swift  as  a  bird  that  glimmers  down  the  blast. 

in. 

So,  still  unworded,  save  in  memory  mute, 
Rest  thou  sweet  hour  of  viol  and  of  lute ; 
Of  thoughts  that  never,  never  can  be  spoken, 
Too  frail  for  the  rough  usage  of  men's  words, — 
Thoughts  that  shall  keep  their  silence  all  unbroken 
Till  music  once  more  stirs  them: — then  like  birds 
That  in  the  night-time  slumber,  they  shall  wake, 
While  all  the  leaves  of  all  the  forest  shake;  — 
Oh,  hark,  I  hear  it  now  that  tender  strain 
Fulfilled  with  all  of  sorrow  save  its  pain. 


THE  POET'S  FAME.  117 


THE    POET'S   FAME. 

MANY  the  songs  of  power  the  poet  wrought 
To  shake  the  hearts  of  men.     Yea,  he  had  caught 
The  inarticulate  and  murmuring  sound 
That  comes  at  midnight  from  the  darkened  ground 
When  the  earth  sleeps ;  for  this  he  framed  a  word 
Of  human  speech,  and  hearts  were  strangely  stirred 
That  listened.     And  for  him  the  evening  dew 
Fell  with  a  sound  of  music,  and  the  blue 
Of  the  deep,  starry  sky  he  had  the  art 
To  put  in  language  that  did  seem  a  part 
Of  the  great  scope  and  progeny  of  nature. 
In  woods,  or  waves,  or  winds,  there  was  no  creature 
Mysterious  to  him.     He  was  too  wise 
Either  to  fear,  or  follow,  or  despise 
Whom  men  call  Science, — for  he  knew  full  well 
All  she  had  told,  or  still  might  live  to  tell, 
Was  known  to   him  before  her  very  birth: 


n8  THE  POET'S  FAME. 

Yea,  that  there  was  no  secret  of  the  earth, 
Nor  of  the  waters  under,  nor  the  skies, 
That  had  been  hidden  from  the  poet's  eyes ; 
By  him  there  was  no  ocean  unexplored, 
Nor  any  savage  coast  that  had  not  roared 
Its  music  in  his  ears. 

He  loved  the  town, — 

Not  less  he  loved  the  ever-deepening  brown 
Of  summer  twilights  on  the  enchanted  hills; 
Where  he  might  listen  to  the  starts  and  thrills 
Of  birds  that  sang  and  rustled  in  the  trees, 
Or  watch  the  footsteps  of  the  wandering  breeze 
And  the  birds'  shadows  as  they  fluttered  by 
Or  slowly  wheeled  across  the  unclouded  sky. 

All  these  were  written  on  the  poet's  soul, — 
But  he  knew,  too,  the  utmost,  distant  goal 
Of  the  human  mind.     His  fiery  thought  did  run 
To  Time's  beginning,  ere  yon  central  sun 
Had  warmed  to  life  the  swarming  broods  of  men. 
In  waking  dreams,  his  many-visioned  ken 
Clutched  the  large,  final  destiny  of  things. 


THE  POET'S  FAME.  119 

He  heard  the  starry  music,  and  the  wings 
Of  beings  unfelt  by  others  thrilled  the  air 
About  him.     Yet  the  loud  and  angry  blare 
Of  tempests  found  an  echo  in  his  verse, 
And  it  was  here  that  lovers  did  rehearse 
The  ditties  they  would  sing  when,  not  too  soon, 
Came  the  warm  night, — shadows,  and  stars,  and  moon. 
Who  heard  his  songs  were  filled  with  noble  rage, 
And  wars  took  fire  from  his  prophetic  page : 
Most  righteous  wars,  wherein,  'midst  blood  and  tears, 
The  world  rushed  onward  through  a  thousand  years. 
And  still  he  made  the  gentle  sounds  of  peace 
Heroic, — bade  the  nation's  anger  cease  ! 
Bitter  his  songs  of  grief  for  those  who  fell, — 
And  for  all  this  the  people  loved  him  well. 

They  loved  him  well  and  therefore,  on  a  day, 
They  said  with  one  accord :  "  Behold  how  gray 
Our  poet's  head  hath  grown !     Ere  't  is  too  late 
Come,  let  us  crown  him  in  our  Hall  of  State  : 
Ring  loud  the  bells,  give  to  the  winds  his  praise, 
And  urge  his  fame  to  other  lands  and  days ! " 


120  THE  PO£T'S  FAME. 

So  was  it  done,  and  deep  his  joy  therein. 
But  passing  home  at  night,  from  out  the  din 
Of  the  loud  Hall,  the  poet,  unaware, 
Moved  through  a  lonely  and  dim-lighted  square — 
There  was  the  smell  of  lilacs  in  the  air 
And  then  the  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 
Startled  by  his  slow  tread.     What  memory  stirred 
Within  his  brain  he  told  not.     Yet  this  night — 
Lone  lingering  when  the  eastern  heavens  were  bright - 
He  wove  a  song  of  such  immortal  art 
That  there  is  not  in  all  the  world  one  heart  — 
One  human  heart  unmoved  by  it.     Long!  long! 
The  laurel-crown  has  failed,  but  not  that  song 
Bom  of  the  night  and  sorrow.    Where  he  lies 
At  rest  beneath  the  ever-shifting  skies, 
Age  after  age,  from  far-off  lands  they  come, 
With  tears  and  flowers,  to  seek  the  poet's  tomb. 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER. 


THE   POET  AND    HIS   MASTER. 

ONE  day  the  poet's  harp  lay  on  the  ground, 
Though  from  it  rose  a  strange  and  trembling  sound 
What  time  the  wind  swept  over  with  a  moan, 
Or,  now  and  then,  a  faint  and  tinkling  tone 
When  a  dead  leaf  fell  shuddering  from  a  tree 
And  shook  the  silent  wires  all  tremulously; 
And  near  it,  solemn-eyed  and  woe-begone, 
The  poet  sat:  he  did  not  weep  or  groan. 

Then  one  drew  near  him  who  was  robed  in  white: 
It  was  the  poet's  master;  he  had  given 
To  him  that  harp,  once  in  a  happy  night 
When  every  silver  star  that  shone  in  heaven 
Made  music  ne'er  before  was  heard  by  mortal  wight. 
And  thus  the  master  spoke: 
18 


122  THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

"Why  is  thy  voice 

Silent,  O  poet?     Why  upon  the  grass 
Lies  thy  still  harp  ?     The  fitful  breezes  pass 
And  touch  the  wires,  but  the  skilled  player's  hand 
Moves  not  upon  them.     Poet, —  wake!     Rejoice, 
Sing  and  arouse  the  melancholy  land." 

"  Master,  forbear.     I  may  not  sing  to-day : 
My  nearest  friend,  the  brother  of  my  heart, 
This  day  is  stricken  with  sorrow,  he  must  part 
From  her  who  loves  him.     Can  I  sing,  and  play 
Upon  the  joyous  harp,  and  mock  his  woe  ?  " 

"  Alas,  and  hast  thou  then  so  soon  forgot 
The  bond  that  with  thy  gift  of  song  did  go  — 
Severe  as  fate,  fixed  and  unchangeable? 
Dost  thou  not  know  this  is  the  poet's  lot: 
'Mid  sounds  of  war  —  in  halcyon  times  of  peace  — 
To  strike  the  ringing  wire  and  not  to  cease; 
In  hours  of  general  happiness  to  swell 
The  common  joy;  and  when  the  people  cry 
With  piteous  voice  loud  to  the  pitiless  sky, 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER. 


123 


'Tis  his  to  frame  the  universal  prayer, 

And  breathe  the  balm  of  song  upon  the  accursed  air?" 

"  But  'tis  not,  O  my  master,  that  I  borrow 
The  robe  of  grief  to  deck  my  brother's  sorrow, — 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  beyond  the  veil  of  youth; 
I  know  what  Life  is,  have  caught  sight  of  Truth ; 
My  heart  is  dead  within  me;  a  thick  pall 
Darkens  the  mid-day  sun." 

"  And  dost  thou  call 

This  sorrow  ?     Call  this  knowledge  ?     O  thou  blind 
And  ignorant!     Know,  then,  thou  yet  shalt  find, 
Ere  thy  full  days  are  numbered  'neath  the  sun, 
Thou,  in  thy  shallow  youth,  hadst  but  begun 
To  guess  what  knowledge  is,  what  grief  may  be, 
And  all  the  infinite  sum  of  human  misery; 
Shalt  find  that  for  each  drop  of  perfect  good 
Thou  payest,  at  last,  a  threefold  price  in  blood; 
What  is  most  noble  in  thee, —  every  thought 
Highest  and  best, —  crushed,  spat  upon,  and  brought 
To  open  shame;  thy  natural  ignorance 


124 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER. 


Counted  thy  crime;  the  world  all  ruled  by  chance, 
Save  that  the  good  most  suffer;  but  above 
These  ills  another, —  cruel,  monstrous,  worse 
Than  all  before, —  thy  pure  and  passionate  love 
Shall  bring  the  old,  immitigable  curse." 

"And  thou  who  tell'st  me  this,  dost  bid  me  sing?" 

"  I  bid  thee  sing,  even  though  I  have  not  told 
All  the  deep  flood  of  anguish  shall  be  rolled 
Across  thy  breast.     Nor,  Poet,  shalt  thou  bring 
From  out  those  depths  thy  grief!     Tell  to  the  wind 
Thy  private  woes,  but  not  to  human  ear, 
Save  in  the  shape  of  comfort  for  thy  kind. 
But  never  hush  thy  song,  dare  not  to  cease 
While  life  is  thine.     Haply,  'mid  those  who  hear, 
Thy  music  to  one  soul  shall  murmur  peace. 
Though  for  thyself  it  hath  no  power  to  cheer. 

"  Then  shall  thy  still  unbroken  spirit  grow 
Strong  in  its  silent  suffering  and  more  wise; 
And  as  the  drenched  and  thunder-shaken  skies 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER. 


I25 


Pass  into  golden  sunset  —  thou  shalt  know 
An  end  of  calm,  when  evening  breezes  blow; 
And  looking  on  thy  life  with  vision  fine 
Shalt  see  the  shadow  of  a  hand  divine." 


I26  ODE. 


ODE. 

I  AM  the  spirit  of  the  morning  sea; 
I  am  the  awakening  and  the  glad  surprise ; 
I  fill  the  skies 

With  laughter  and  with  light. 
Not  tears,  but  jollity 

At  birth  of  day  brim  the  strong  man-child's  eyes. 
Behold  the  white 

Wide  three-fold  beams  that  from  the  hidden  sun 
Rise  swift  and  far, — 
One  where  Orion  keeps 
His  armed  watch,  and  one 
That  to  the  midmost  starry  heaven  upleaps; 
The  third  blots  out  the  firm-fixed  Northern  Star. 
I  am  the  wind  that  shakes  the  glittering  wave, 
Hurries  the  snowy  spume  along  the  shore 


ODE. 


127 


And  dies  at  last  in  some  far-murmuring  cave. 
My  voice  thou  hearest  in  the  breaker's  roar, — 
That  sound  which  never  failed  since  time  began, 
And  first  around  the  world  the  shining  tumult  ran. 

ii. 

I  light  the  sea  and  wake  the  sleeping  land. 

My  footsteps  on  the  hills  make  music,  and  my  hand 

Plays  like  a  harper's  on  the  wind-swept  pines. 

With  the  wind  and  the  day 
I  follow  round  the  world — away  !  away  ! 
Wide  over  lake  and  plain  my  sunlight  shines 
And  every  wave  and  every  blade  of  grass 
Doth  know  me  as  I  pass; 

And  me  the  western  sloping  mountains  know,  and  me 
The  far-off,  golden  sea. 

O  sea,  whereon  the  passing  sun  doth  lie! 
O  man,  who  watchest  by  that  golden  sea! 
Weep  not, —  O  weep  not  thou,  but  lift  thine  eye 
And  see  me  glorious  in  the  sunset  sky ! 


128  ODE. 

III. 

I  love  not  the  night 
Save  when  the  stars  are  bright, 
Or  when  the  moon 

Fills  the  white  air  with  silence  like  a  tune. 
Yea,  even  the  night  is  mine 
When  the  Northern  Lights  outshine, 
And  all  the  wild  heavens  throb  in  ecstasy  divine;  — 
Yea,  mine  deep  midnight,  though  the  black  sky  lowers, 
When  the  sea  burns  white  and  breaks  on  the  shore 
in  starry  showers. 

IV. 

I  am  the  laughter  of  the  new-born  child 
On  whose  soft-breathing  sleep  an  angel  smiled. 
And  I  all  sweet  first  things  that  are: 
First  songs  of  birds,  not  perfect  as  at  last, — 
Broken  and  incomplete, — 
But  sweet,  oh,  sweet! 
And  I  the  first  faint  glimmer  of  a  star 
To  the  wrecked  ship  that  tells  the  storm  is  past; 
The  first  keen  smells  and  stirrings  of  the  Spring; 


ODE. 


129 


First  snow-flakes,  and  first  May-flowers  after  snow; 

The  silver  glow 

Of  the  new  moon's  ethereal  ring; 

The  song  the  morning  stars  together  made, 

And  the  first  kiss  of  lovers  under  the  first  June  shade. 

v. 

My  sword  is  quick,  my  arm  is  strong  to  smite 
In  the  dread  joy  and  fury  of  the  fight. 
I  am  with  those  who  win,  not  those  who  fly; 
With  those  who  live  I  am,  not  those  who  die. 
Who  die?     Nay  —  nay — that  word 
Where  I  am  is  unheard; 

For  I  am  the  spirit  of  youth  that  cannot  change, 
Nor  cease,  nor  suffer  woe; 
And  I  am  the  spirit  of  beauty  that  doth  range 
Through  natural  forms  and  motions,  and  each  show 
Of  outward  loveliness.     With  me  have  birth 
All  gentleness  and  joy  in  all  the  earth. 
Raphael  knew  me,  and  showed  the  world  my  face; 
Me  Homer  knew,  and  all  the  singing  race. — 
For  I  am  the  spirit  of  light,  and  life,  and  mirth. 


I30 


AT  THE  PRESIDENT'S  GRAVE. 

AT   THE    PRESIDENT'S   GRAVE. 
(SEPTEMBER  19,  1881.) 

ALL  summer  long  the  people  knelt 
And  listened  at  the  sick  man's  door: 

Each  pang  which  that  pale  sufferer  felt 

Throbbed  through  the  land  from  shore  to  shore ; 

And  as  the  all-dreaded  hour  drew  nigh, 
What  breathless  watching,  night  and  day! 

What  tears,  what  prayers !     Great  God  on  high, — 
Have  we  forgotten  how  to  pray ! 

O  broken-hearted,  widowed  one, 

Forgive  us  if  we  press  too  near ! 
Dead  is  our  husband,  father,  son, — 

For  we  are  all  one  household  here. 

And  not  alone  here  by  the  sea, 

And  not  in  his  own  land  alone, 
Are  tears  of  anguish  shed  with  thee  — 

In  this  one  loss  the  world  is  one. 


AT  THE  PRESIDENT'S   GRAVE.  j 

And  thou  remember, —  though  relief 

Come  not  till  thine  own  day  grow  dim,- 

That.  never,  in  this  world  of  grief, 
Was  mortal  ever  mourned  like  him. 


EPITAPH. 


A  man  not  perfect,  but  of  heart 
So  high,  of  such  heroic  rage, 

That  even  his  hopes  became  a  part 
Of  earth's  eternal  heritage. 


132 


THE  BURIAL   OF  GRANT. 


THE    BURIAL    OF    GRANT. 
(NEW-YORK,  AUGUST  8,  1885.) 

i. 

YE  living  soldiers  of  the  mighty  war, 

Once  more  from  roaring  cannon  and  the  drums 
And  bugles  blown  at  morn,  the  summons  comes; 
Forget  the  halting  limb,  each  wound  and  scar: 
Once  more  your  Captain  calls  to  you; 
Come  to  his  last  review ! 

n. 
And  come  ye,  too,  bright  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Ye  who  went  heavenward  from  the  embattled  field ; 
And  ye  whose  harder  fate  it  was  to  yield 
Life  from  the  loathful  prison  or  anguished  bed: 
Dear  ghosts!  come  join  your  comrades  here 
Beside  this  sacred  bier. 


THE  BURIAL    OF  GRANT. 


133 


III. 

Nor  be  ye  absent,  ye  immortal  band, — 
Warriors  of  ages  past,  and  our  own  age, — 
Who  drew  the  sword  for  right,  and  not  in  rage, 
Made  war  that  peace  might  live  in  all  the  land, 
Nor  ever  struck  one  vengeful  blow, 
But  helped  the  fallen  foe. 

IV. 

And  fail  not  ye  —  but,  ah,  ye  falter  not  — 
To  join  his  army  of  the  dead  and  living, 
Ye  who  once  felt  his  might,  and  his  forgiving: 
Brothers,  whom  more  in  love  than  hate  he  smote 
For  all  his  countrymen  make  room 
By  our  great  hero's  tomb ! 

v. 
Come  soldiers, —  not  to  battle  as  of  yore, 

But  come  to  weep;  ay,  shed  your  noblest  tears; 
For  lo,  the  stubborn  chief,  who  knew  not  fears, 
Lies  cold  at  last,  ye  shall  not  see  him  more. 
How  long  grim  Death  he  fought  and  well, 
That  poor,  lean  frame  doth  tell. 


134 


THE  BURIAL    OF  GRANT. 


VI. 

All's  over  now;  here  let  our  Captain  rest, 
Silent  amid  the  blare  of  praise  and  blame; 
Here  let  him  rest,  alone  with  his  great  fame, — 
Here  in  the  city's  heart  he  loved  the  best, 
And  where  our  sons  his  tomb  may  see 
To  make  them  brave  as  he: — 

VII. 

As  brave  as  he  —  he  on  whose  iron  arm 

Our  Greatest  leaned,  our  gentlest  and  most  wise, — 
Leaned  when  all  other  help  seemed  mocking  lies, 
While  this  one  soldier  checked  the  tide  of  harm, 
And  they  together  saved  the  State, 
And  made  it  free  and  great. 


A   LAMENT. 


A  LAMENT 

FOR  THE  DEAD  OF  THE  "  JEANNETTE  "  BROUGHT 
HOME  ON  THE  "  FRISIA." 


O  GATES  of  ice !  long  have  ye  held  our  loved  ones. 

Ye  Cruel !  how  could  ye  keep  from  us  them  for 
whom  our  hearts  yearned :  our  dear  ones,  our  fathers, 
our  children,  our  brothers,  our  lovers. 

Cold  and  Sleet,  Darkness  and  Ice !  hard  have  ye 
held  them;  ye  would  not  let  them  go. 

Their  hands  ye  have  bound  fast ;  their  feet  ye  have 
detained ;  and  well  have  ye  laid  hold  upon  the  hearts 
of  our  loved  ones. 

O  silent  Arctic  Night !  thou  hast  wooed  them  from 
us. 

O  Secret  of  the  white  and  unknown  world !  too 
strong  hast  thou  been  for  us;  we  were  as  nothing  to 
thee;  thou  hast  drawn  them  from  us;  thou  wouldst 
not  let  them  go. 


I36  A   LAMENT. 

The  long  day  passed :  thou  wouldst  not  let  them  go. 

The  long,  long  night  came  and  went;  thou  wouldst 
not  let  them  go. 

O  thou  insatiate !  What  to  thee  are  youth,  and  life, 
and  hope,  and  love  ? 

For  thou  art  Death,  not  Life;  thou  art  Despair, 
not  Hope. 

Nought  to  thee  the  rush  of  youthful  blood ;  nought 
to  thee  the  beauty  and  strength  of  our  loved  ones. 

The  breath  of  their  bodies  was  not  sweet  to  thee ; 
they  loved  thee,  and  thou  lovedst  not  them. 

They  followed  thee,  thou  didst  not  look  upon 
them ;  but  still,  O  thou  inviolate !  still  did  they  fol 
low  thee. 

Thee  did  they  follow  through  storm,  through  perils 
of  the  ice,  and  of  the  unknown  darkness. 

The  sharp  spears  of  the  frost  they  feared  not;  the 
terrors  of  death  they  feared  not.  For  thee,  for  thee, 
for  thee,  not  for  us;  only  that  they  might  look  upon 
thy  face! 

All  these  they  endured  for  thee ;  the  thought  of  us 
whom  yet  they  loved,  this  also  they  endured  for 
thee. 


A   LAMENT. 


137 


For  thou  art  beautiful,  beyond  the  beauty  of  woman. 
In  thy  hair  are  the  stars  of  night.  Thou  wrappest 
about  thee  garments  of  fire  that  burn  not,  and  are 
never  quenched; 

When  thou  movest  they  are  moved;  when  thou 
breathest  they  tremble. 

Yea,  awful  art  thou  in  thy  beauty ;  with  white  fingers 
beckoning  in  mists  and  shadows  of  the  frozen  sea : 
drawing  to  thee  the  hearts  of  heroes. 

n. 

LONG,  long  have  they  tarried  in  thy  gates,  O  North  ! 

But  now  thou  hast  given  them  up.  Lo,  they  come 
to  us  once  more, —  our  beloved,  our  only  ones ! 

O  dearest,  why  have  ye  stayed  so  long  ? 

With  ye,  night  and  day  have  come  and  gone,  but 
with  us  there  was  night  only. 

But  no,  we  will  not  reproach  ye,  hearts  of  our 
hearts, —  dearest  and  best;  our  fathers,  our  children, 
our  brothers,  our  lovers ! 

Come  back  to  us!  Behold  our  arms  are  open  for 
you ;  ye  are  ours ;  ye  have  returned  unto  us ;  ye  shall 
never  go  hence  again. 


I38  A   LAMENT. 

But  why  are  ye  silent,  why  do  ye  not  stir,  why  do 
ye  not  speak  to  us,  O  beloved  ones  ? 

White  are  your  cheeks  like  snow ;  your  eyes  they 
do  not  look  upon  us. 

So  long  ye  have  been  gone,  and  is  this  your  joy 
to  see  us  once  more  ? 

Lo !  do  we  not  welcome  you  ?  Are  not  our  souls 
glad?  Do  not  our  tears,  long  kept,  fall  upon  your 
faces  ? 

Or  do  ye  but  sleep  well,  after  those  hard  and  weary 
labors  ?  O  now  awaken,  for  ye  shall  take  rest  and 
pleasure, —  here  are  your  homes  and  kindred! 

Listen,  beloved:  here  is  your  sister,  here  is  your 
brother,  here  is  your  lover! 

in. 

THEY  will  not  hearken  to  our  voices. 

They  are  still:  their  eyes  look  not  upon  us. 

O  insatiate,  O  Secret  of  the  white  and  unknown 
world,  cruel  indeed  thou  art ! 

Thou  hast  sent  back  to  us  our  best  beloved;  their 
bodies  thou  hast  rendered  up,  but  their  spirits  thou 
hast  taken  away  from  us  forever. 


A    THOUGHT.  139 

In  life  thou  didst  hold  them  from  us  —  and  in  death, 
in  death  they  are  thine. 

NEW  YORK,  February  20,  1884. 


A  THOUGHT. 

ONCE,  looking  from  a  window  on  a  land 

That  lay  in  silence  underneath  the  sun : 

A  land  of  broad,  green  meadows,  through  which  poured 

Two  rivers,  slowly  widening  to  the  sea, — 

Thus,  as  I  looked,  I  know  not  how  or  whence, 

Was  borne  into  my  unexpectant  soul 

That  thought,  late  learned  by  anxious-witted  man, 

The  infinite  patience  of  the  Eternal  Mind. 


140 


ILL    TIDINGS. 


ILL  TIDINGS. 

(THE  STUDIO  CONCERT.) 

IN  the  long  studio  from  whose  towering  walls 
Greek  Pheidias  beams,  and  Angelo  appalls, 
Eager  the  listening,  downcast  faces  throng 
While  violins  their  piercing  tones  prolong. 
At  times  I  know  not  if  I  see,  or  hear, 
Milo's  calm  smile,  or  some  not  sorrowing  tear 
Down-falling  on  the  surface  of  the  stream 
That  music  pours  across  my  waking  dream. 
Ah,  is  it  then  a  dream  that  while  repeat 
Those  chords,  like  strokes  of  silver-shod  light  feet, 
And  the  great  Master's  music  marches  on  — 
I  hear  the  horses  of  the  Parthenon? 

But  all  to-day  seems  vague,  unreal,  far, 
With  fear  and  discord  in  the  dearest  strain, 
For  'neath  yon  slowly-sinking  western  star 
One  that  I  love  lies  on  h|r  bed  of  pain. 


A   NEW  WORLD. 


A  NEW   WORLD. 


141 


"  I  KNOW,"  he  said, 

"The  thunder  and  the  lightning  have  passed  by 
And  all  the  earth  is  black,  and  burnt,  and  dead; 
But,  friend,  the  grass  will  grow  again,  the  flowers 
Again  will  bloom,  the  summer  birds  will  sing, 
And  the  all-healing  sun  will  shine  once  more." 

"  Blind  prophecy,"  she  answered  in  her  woe. 
Yet  still,  as  time  wore  on,  the  prophet's  words 
Came  true, —  but  not  all  true.     (So  will  it  be 
With  all  who  here  shall  suffer  mortal  loss:) 
Ere  long  the  grass,  the  flowers,  the  birds,  the  sun  - 
Once  more  made  bright  the  bleak  and  desolate  earth ; 
They  came  once  more,  those  joys  of  other  days; 
She  felt  them,  moved  among  them,  and  was  glad. 

Glad  —  glad !    O  mocking  word !  They  came  once 

more, 

But  not  the  same  to  her.     Familiar  they 
As  a  remembered  dream,  and  beautiful  — 
But  changed,  all  changed,  the  whole  world  changed 
forever. 


1 42  FATE. 


FATE. 

I  FLUNG  a  stone  into  a  grassy  field : 
How  many  tiny  creatures  there  may  yield 
(I  thought)  their  petty  lives  through  that  rude  shock ! 
To  me  a  pebble,  'tis  to  them  a  rock, 
Gigantic,  cruel,  fraught  with  sudden  death. 
Perhaps  it  crushed  an  ant,  perhaps  its  breath 
Alone  tore  down  a  white  and  glittering  palace, 
And  the  small  spider  damns  the  giant's  malice 
Who  wrought  the  wreck  —  blasted  his  pretty  art ! 

Who  knows  what  day  some  saunterer,  light  of  heart, 
An  idle  wanderer  through  the  fields  of  space, 
Large-limbed,  big-brained,  to  whom  our  puny  race 
Seem  small  as  insects, —  one  whose  footstep  jars 
On  some  vast  continent  islanded  by  stars, — 
May  fling  a  stone  and  crush  our  earth  to  bits, 
And  all  that  men  have  builded  by  their  wits? 


FATE. 


143 


"  Ah,  what  a  loss !  "  you  say ;  "  our  bodies  go, 
But  not  our  temples,  statues,  and  the  glow 
Of  glorious  canvases;  and  not  the  pages 
Our  poets  have  illumed  through  myriad  ages. 
What  boots  the  insect's  loss  ?     Another  day 
Will  see  the  self-same  ant-hill  and  the  play 
Of  light  on  dainty  web  the  same.     But  blot 
All  human  art  from  this  terrestrial  plot, 
Something  indeed  would  pass  that  nevermore 
Would  light  the  universe  as  once  before ! " 
The  spider's  work  is  not  original, — 
You  say, —  but  what  of  ours?     I  fear  that  all 
We  do  is  just  the  same  thing  over  and  over. 
Take  Life :   you  have  the  woman  and  her  lover, — 
'Tis  old  as  Eden, —  nought  is  new  in  that! 
Take  Building,  and  you  reach  ere  long  the  flat 
Nile    desert    sands,    by    way    of    France,     Rome, 

Greece. 

And  there  is  poetry  —  our  bards  increase 
In  numbers,  not  in  sweetness,  not  in  force 
Since  Job  with  the     Eternal    held  discourse. 
No,  no!   The  forms  may  change,  but  even   they 


144 


FATE. 


Come  round  again.     Could  we  but  truly  scan  it, 
We'd  find  in  the  heavens  some  little,  busy  planet 
Whence  all  we  are  was  borrowed.     If  to-day 
The  imagined  giant  flung  his  ponderous  stone, 
And  we  and  all  our  far-stretched  schemes  were  done, 
His  were  a  scant  remorse  and  short-lived  trouble, — 
Like  mine  for  those  small  creatures  in  the  stubble. 


THE    VOICE   OF   THE  PINE. 


'45 


THE   VOICE   OF  THE   PINE. 

'Tis  night  upon  the  lake.     Our  bed  of  boughs 
Is  built  where  —  high  above  —  the  pine-tree  soughs. 
'Tis  still, — and  yet  what  woody  noises  loom 
Against  the  background  of  the  silent  gloom! 
One  well  might  hear  the  opening  of  a  flower 
If  day  were  hushed  as  this.     A  mimic  shower 
Just  shaken  from  a  branch,  how  large  it  sounded, 
As  'gainst  our  canvas  roof  its  three  drops  bounded! 
Across  the  rumpling  waves  the  hoot-owl's  bark 
Tolls  forth  the  midnight  hour  upon  the  dark. 
What  mellow  booming  from  the  hills  doth  come?  — 
The  mountain  quarry  strikes  its  mighty  drum. 

Long  had  we  lain  beside  our  pine- wood  fire, 
From  things  of  sport  our  talk  had  risen  higher; 
How  frank  and  intimate  the  words  of  men 
When  tented  lonely  in  some  forest  glen! 
21 


146  THE    VOICE   OF  THE  PINE. 

No  dallying  now  with  masks,  from  whence  emerges 
Scarce  one  true  feature  forth.     The  night- wind  urges 
To  straight  and  simple  speech.     So  we  had  thought 
Aloud;  no  well-hid  secrets  but  were  brought 
To  light.     The  spiritual  hopes,  the  wild, 
Unreasoned  longings  that,  from  child  to  child, 
Mortals  still  cherish  (though  with  modem  shame),— 
To  these,  and  things  like  these,  we  gave  a  name; 
And  as  we  talked,  the  intense  and  resinous  fire 
Lit  up  the  towering  boles,  till  nigh  and  nigher 
They  gathered  round,  a  ghostly  company, 
Like  beasts  who  seek  to  know  what  men  may  be. 


Then  to  our  hemlock  beds,  but  not  to  sleep, — 
For  listening  to  the  stealthy  steps  that  creep 
About  the  tent,  or  falling  branch,  but  most 
A  noise  was  like  the  rustling  of  a  host, 
Or  like  the  sea  that  breaks  upon  the  shore, — 
It  was  the  pine-tree's  murmur.     More  and  more 
It  took  a  human  sound.     These  words  I  felt 
Into  the  skyej  darkness  float  and  melt: 


THE    VOICE   OF  THE  PINE.  I4y 

"  Heardst  thou  these  wanderers  reasoning  of  a  time 
When  men  more  near  the  Eternal  One  shall  climb  ? 
How  like  the  new-born  child,  who  cannot  tell 
A  mother's  arm  that  wraps  it  warm  and  well! 
Leaves  of  His  rose;  drops  in  His  sea  that  flow, — 
Are  they,  alas,  so  blind  they  cannot  know 
Here,  in  this  breathing  world  of  joy  and  fear, 
They  can  no  nearer  get  to  God  than  here." 


148  THE  HOMESTEAD. 


THE   HOMESTEAD. 


HERE  stays  the  house,  here  stay  the  self-same  places, 
Here  the  white  lilacs  and  the  buttonwoods; 
Here  are  the  pine-groves,  there  the  river-floods, 
And  there  the  threading  brook  that  interlaces 
Green  meadow-bank  with  meadow-bank  the  same. 
The  melancholy  nightly  chorus  came 
Long,  long  ago  from  the  same  pool,  and  yonder 
Stark  poplars  lift  in  the  same  twilight  air 
Their  ancient  shadows  :  -nearer  still,  and  fonder, 
The  black-heart  cherry:tree's  gaunt  branches  bare 
Rasp  on  the  same  old  window  where  I  ponder. 


THE  HOMESTEAD.  149 


II. 

And  we,  the  only  living,  only  pass; 

We*  come  and  go,  whither  and  whence  we  know  not : 

From  birth  to  bound  the  same  house  keeps,  alas ! 

New  lives  as  gently  as  the  old;  there  show  not 

Among  the  haunts  that  each  had  thought  his  own 

The  looks  that  parting  brings  to  human  faces. 

Th«  black-heart  there,  that  heard  my  earliest  moan, 

And  yet  shall  hear  my  last,  like  all  these  places 

I  love  so  well,  unloving  lives  from  child 

To  child;  from  morning  joy  to  evening  sorrow — 

Untouched  by  joy,  by  anguish  undefiled: 

All  one  the  generations  gone,  and  new; 

All  one  dark  yesterday  and  bright  to-morrow; 

To  the  old  tree's  insensate  sympathy 

All  one  the  morning  and  the  evening  dew — 

My   far,  forgotten  ancestor  and  I. 


150    "BEYOND    THE  BRANCHES  OF  THE  P/JV£." 


BEYOND  THE  BRANCHES  OF  THE  PINE." 

BEYOND  the  branches  of  the  pine 
The  golden  sun  no  more  doth  shine, 

But  still  the  solemn  after-glow 
Floods  the  deep  heavens  with  light  divine. 

The  night-wind  stirs  the  corn-field  near, 
The  gray  moon  turns  to  silver  clear, 

And  one  by  one  the  glimmering  stars 
In  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  appear. 

Now  do  the  mighty  hosts  of  light 
Across  the  darkness  take  their  flight, — 

They  rise  above  the  eastern  hill 
And  silent  journey  through  the  night. 

And  there  beneath  the  starry  zone, 
In  the  deep,  narrow  grave,  alone, 

Rests  all  that  mortal  was  of  her, 
The  purest  spirit  I  have  known. 


AN  A  UTUMN  MEDITA  TION. 


AN   AUTUMN    MEDITATION. 

As  THE  long  day  of  cloud  and  storm  and  sun 

Declines  into  the  dark  and  silent  night, 

So  passed  the  old  man's  life  from  human  gaze; 

But  not  till  sunset,  full  of  lovely  light 

And  color  that  the  day  might  not  reveal, 

Bathed  in  soft  gloom  the  landscape. 

Thus  kind  Heaven 

Let  me,  too,  die  when  Autumn  holds  the  year, 
Serene,  with  tender  hues,  and  bracing  airs, — 
And  near  me  those  I  love;  with  no  black  thoughts, 
Nor  dread  of  what  may  come!    Yea,  when  I  die 
Let  me  not  miss  from  nature  the  cool  rush 
Of  northern  winds;  let  Autumn  sunset  skies 
Be  golden;  let  the  cold,  clear  blue  of  night 
Whiten  with  stars  as  now!    Then  shall  I  fade 
From  life  to  life, —  pass  on  the  year's  full  tide 


152  AN  AUTUMN  MEDITATION. 

Into  the  swell  and  vast  of  the  outer  sea 
Beyond  this  narrow  world. 

For  autumn  days 

To  me  not  melancholy  are,  but  full 
Of  joy  and  hope,  mysterious  and  high, 
And  with  strange  promise  rife.     Then  it  meseems 
Not  failing  is  the  year,  but  gathering  fire 
Even  as  the  cold  increases. 

Grows  a  weed 

More  richly  here  beside  our  mellow  seas 
That  is  the  Autumn's  harbinger  and   pride. 
When  fades  the  cardinal-flower,  whose  heart-red  bloom 
Glows  like  a  living  coal  upon  the  green 
Of  the  midsummer  meadows,  then  how  bright, 
How  deepening  bright  like  mounting  flame  doth  burn 
The  golden-rod  upon  a  thousand  hills! 
This  is  the  Autumn's  flower,  and  to  my  soul 
A  token  fresh  of  beauty  and  of  life, 
And  life's  supreme  delight. 


AN  AUTUMN  MEDITATION.  153 

When  I  am  gone, 

Something  of  me   I  would  might  subtly  pass 
Within  these  flowers  twain  of  all  the  year: 
So  might  my  spirit  send  a  sudden  stir 
Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  love  these  hills, 
These  woods,  these  waves,  and  meadows  by  the  sea. 


1 54  RECOGNITION. 


RECOGNITION, 


IN  darkness  of  the  visionary  njght 

This  I  beheld:  Wide  space  and  therein  God, 

God  who  in  dual  nature  doth  abide, — 

Love,  and  the  Loved  One,  Power,  and  Beauty's  self. 

And  forth  from  God  did  come,  with  dreadful  thrill, 

Creation,  boundless,  to  the  eye  unformed, 

And  white  with  trembling  fire  and  light  intense, 

And  outward  pulsings  like  the  boreal  flame; 

One  mighty  cloud  it  seemed,  nor  star,  nor  earth. 

Or  like  some  nameless  growth  of  the  under-seas: 

Creation  dumb,  unconscious,  yet  alive 

With  swift,  concentric,  never-ceasing  urge, 

Resolving  gradual  to  one  disk  of  fire. 

And  as  I  looked,  behold  the  flying  rim 

Grew  separate  from  the  center;   this  again 

Divided,  and  the  whole  still  swift  revolved, 

Ring  within  ring,  and  fiery  wheel  in  wheel; 


RECOGNITION.  1 5  5 

Till,  sudden  or  slow  as  chanced,  the  outmost  edge 

Whirled  into  fragments,  each  a  separate  sun, 

With  lesser  globes  attendant  on  its  flight. 

These  while  I  gazed  turned  dark  with  smouldering  fire 

And,  slow  contracting,  grew  to  solid  orbs. 

Then  knew  I  that  this  planetary  world, 

Cradled   in  light,  and  curtained  with  the  dawn 

And  starry  eve,  was  born;  though  in  itself 

Complete  and  perfect  all,  yet  but  a  part 

And  atom  of  the  living  universe. 


u. 

Unconscious  still  the  child  of  the  conscious  God, — 
Creation,  born  of  Beauty  and  of  Love, 
Beauty  the   womb  and  mother  of  all  worlds. 
But  soon   with  silent  speed  the  new-made  earth 
Swept  near  me  where  I  watched  the  birth  of  things, 
Its  greatening  bulk  eclipsing,  star  by  star, 
Half  the  bright  heavens.     Then  I  beheld  crawl  forth 
Upon  the  earth's  cool  crust  most  wondrous  forms 
Wherein  were  hid,  in  transmutation  strange, 


1 5  6  RECOGNITION. 

Sparks  of  the  ancient,  never-ending  fire; 
Shapes  moved  not  solely  by  exterior  law 
But  having  will  and  motion  of  their  own, — 
First  sluggish  and  minute,  then  by  degrees 
Monstrous,  enorm.     Then  other  forms  more  fine 
Streamed  ceaseless  on^my  sight,  until  at  last, 
Rising  and  turning  its  slow   gaze  about 
Across  the  abysmal  void  the  mighty  child 
Of  the  supreme,  divine  Omnipotence  — 
Creation,  born  of  God,  by  Him  begot, 
Conscious  in  MAN,  no  longer  blind  and  dumb, 
Beheld  and  knew  its  father  and  its  God. 


THE    NEW    DAY, 

A    POEM    IN    SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


PRELUDE. 


THE    night  was    dark,  though    sometimes   a    faint 
star 

A  little  while  a  little  space  made  bright. 
Dark  was  the  night  and  like  an  iron  bar 
Lay  heavy  on  the  land  :    till  o'er  the  sea 
Slowly,  within  the  East,  there  grew  a  light 
Which  half  was  starlight,  and  half  seemed  to  be 
The  herald  of  a  greater.     The  pale  white 
Turned  slowly  to  pale  rose,  and  up  the  height 
Of  heaven  slowly  climbed.     The  gray  sea  grew 
Rose-colored  like  the  sky.     A  white  gull  flew 
Straight  toward  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  East 
Where  slowly  the  rose  gathered  and  increased. 
It  was  as  on  the  opening  of  a  door 
By  one  who  in  his  hand  a  lamp  doth  hold, 
(Its  flame  yet  hidden  by  the  garment's  fold)  — 
The  still  air  moves,  the  wide  room  is  less  dim. 

t* 

23 


1 62  THE  NEW  DAY. 

More  bright  the  East  became,  the  ocean  turned 
Dark  and  more  dark  against  the  brightening  sky — 
Sharper  against  the  sky  the  long  sea  line. 
The  hollows  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 
Were  green  like  leaves  whereon  no  sun  doth  shine, 
Though  white  the  outer  branches  of  the  tree. 
From  rose  to  red  the  level  heaven  burned; 
Then  sudden,  as  if  a  sword  fell  from  on  high, 
A  blade  of  gold  flashed  on  the  ocean's  rim. 


PART   I. 


SONNET. 
(AFTER  THE  ITALIAN.) 

I   KNOW  not  if  I  love  her  overmuch; 
But  this  I  know,  that  when  unto  her  face 
She  lifts  her  hand,  which  rests  there,  still,  a  space, 
Then  slowly  falls — 'tis  I  who  feel  that  touch. 

And  when  she  sudden  shakes  her  head,  with  such 
A  look,  I  soon  her  secret  meaning  trace. 
So  when  she  runs  I  think  'tis  I  who  race. 
Like  a  poor  cripple  who  has  lost  his  crutch 

I  am  if  she  is  gone;  and  when  she  goes, 
I  know  not  why,  for  that  is  a  strange  art — 
As  if  myself  should  from  myself  depart. 

I  know  not  if  I  love  her  more  than  those 
Her  lovers,  but  for  the  red  hidden  rose 
She  covers  in  her  hair,  I  'd  give  my  heart. 
165 


166  THE  NEW  DAY. 


II. 

SONNET. 
(AFTER  THE  ITALIAN.) 

I  LIKE  her  gentle  hand  that  sometimes  strays, 

To    find    the   place,    through   the   same  book  with 

mine; 

I  like  her  feet ;  and  oh,  her  eyes  are  fine ! 
And  when  we  say  farewell,  perhaps  she  stays 

Love-lingering — then  hurries  on  her  ways, 

As  if  she  thought,  "  To  end  my  pain  and  thine." 
I  like  her  voice  better  than  new-made  wine, 
I  like  the  mandolin  whereon  she  plays. 

And  I  like,  too,  the  cloak  I  saw  her  wear, 

And  the  red  scarf  that  her  white  neck  doth  cover, 
And  well  I  like  the  door  that  she  comes  through; 

I  like  the  riband  that  doth  bind  her  hair, — 
But  then,  in  truth,  I  am  that  lady's  lover, 
And  every  new  day  there  is  something  new. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  167 


III. 

"A    BARREN    STRETCH   THAT   SLANTS   TO 
THE   SALT   SEA'S  GRAY." 

A  BARREN  stretch  that  slants  to  the  salt  sea's  gray — . 

Rock-strewn,  and   scarred  by  fire,  and   rough  with 

stubble, — 

With  here  and  there  a  bold,  bright  touch  of  color 
Berries  and  yellow  leaves — that  make  the  dolor 

More  dolorous  still.     Above,  a  sky  of  trouble. 

But  now  a  light  is  lifted  in  the  air; 

And  though  the  sky  is  shadowed,  fold  on  fold, 
By  clouds  that  have  the  lightnings  in  their  hold, 

That  western  gleam  makes  all  the  dim  earth  fair — 
The  sun  shines  forth  and  the  gray  sea  is  gold. 


1 68  THE  NEW  DAY. 

IV. 
LOVE    IN    WONDER. 

(A    PICTURE.) 

TO-DAY  I  saw  the  picture  of  a  man 

Who,  issuing  from  a  wood,  doth  thrust  apart 
Strong-matted,  thorny  branches,  whose   keen  smart 
He  heeds  in  nowise,  if  he  only  can 

Win  the  red  rose  a  maiden,  like  a  fan, 

Holds  daintily.     She,  listening  to  her  heart, 
Hath  looked  another  way.     Ah,  would  she  start, 
And  weep,  and  suffer  sorrow,  if  he  ran — 

For  utter  love  of  her — swift,  sobbing,  back 
Into  those  awful  shadows,  terribler 
Because  her  whiteness  made  their  black  more  black! 

A  little  while  he  waits,  lest  he  should  err; 
Awhile  he  wonders,  secretly. — Alack! 
He  could  so  gladly  die,  or  live  for  her. 


THE  NEW  DA  Y.  169 


V. 

LOVE    GROWN    BOLD. 

THIS  is  her  picture  painted  ere  mine  eyes 
Her  ever  holy  face  had  looked  upon. 
She  sitteth  in  a  silence  of  her  own; 
Behind  her,  on  the  ground,  a  red  rose  lies : 

Her  thinking  brow  is  bent,  nor  doth  arise 

Her  gaze  from  that  shut  book  whose  word  unknown 
Her  firm  hands  hide  from  her; — there  all  alone 
She  sitteth  in  thought-trouble,  maidenwise. 

And  now  her  lover  waiting  wondereth 
Whether  the  joy  of  joys  is  drawing  near : 
Shall  his  brave  fingers  like  a  tender  breath 

That  shut  book  open  for  her,  wide  and  clear? 
From  him  who  her  sweet  shadow  worshippeth 
Now  will  she  take  the  rose,  and  hold  it  dear? 


24 


INTERLUDE, 


THE  sun  rose  swift  and  sent  a  golden  gleam 
Across  the  moving  waters  to  the  land; 
Then  for  a  little  while  it  seemed  to  stand 
In  a  clear  place,  midway  'twixt  sea  and  cloud: 
Whence  rising  swift  again  it  passed  behind 
Full  many  a  long  and  narrow  cloud-wrought  beam 
Encased  in  gold  unearthly,  that  was  mined 
From  out  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  wind. 
These  first  revealed  its  face  and  next  did  shroud, 
While  still  the  daylight  grew,  and  joy  thereby 
Lit  all  the  windy  stretches  of  the  sky : 

Until  a  shadow  darkened  from  the  east 
And  sprang  upon  the  ocean  like  a  beast. 


PART  II. 


'T^HERE  was  a  field  green  and  fragrant  with  grass 
±.  and  flowers,  and  flooded  with  sunlight,  and  the 
air  above  it  throbbed  with  the  songs  of  birds.  It 
was  yet  morning  wh^n  sudden  darkness  came,  and 
fire  followed  lightning  over  its  face,  and  the  singing 
birds  fell  dying  upon  the  blackened  grass.  The  thun 
der  and  the  flame  passed,  but  it  was  still  dark, — till 
a  ray  of  light  touched  the  field's  edge  and  grew,  little 
by  little.  Then  I  who  listened  heard — not  the 
songs  of  birds  again,  but  the  flutter  of  broken  wings. 


178  THE  NEW  DAY. 


II. 
THE  DARK  ROOM. 

(A    PARABLE  ) 
I. 

A  MAIDEN  sought  her  love  in  a  dark  room, — 
So  early  had  she  yearned  from  yearning  sleep, 
So  hard  it  was  from  her  true  love  to  keep, — 
And  blind  she  went  through  that  all-silent  gloom, 

Like  one  who  wanders  weeping  in  a  tomb. 
Heavy  her  heart,  but  her  light  fingers  leap 
With  restless  grasp  and  question  in  that  deep 
Unanswering  void.     Now  when  a  hand  did  loom 

At  last,  how  swift  her  warm  impassioned  face 
Pressed  'gainst  the  black  and  solemn-yielding  air, 
As  near  more  near  she  groped  to  that  bright  place, 

And  seized  the  hand,  and  drowned  it  with  her  hair, 
And  bent  her  body  to  his  fierce  embrace, 
And  knew  what  joy  was  in  the  darkness  there. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 


179 


II. 

GREAT  GOD!  the  arms  wherein  that  maiden  fell 
Were  not  her  lover's;  I  am  her  lover — I, 
Who  sat  here  in  the  shadows  silently — 
Silent  with  gladness,  for  I  thought,  O  hell! 

I  thought  to  me  she  moved,  and  all  was  well. 
She  saw  me  not,  yet  dimly  could  descry 
That  beautiful  hand  of  his,  and  with  a  sigh 
Sank  on  his  fair  and  treacherous  breast.    The  spell 

Of  the  Evil  One  was  on  me.     All  in  vain 

I  strove  to  speak — my  parched  lips  were  dumb. 
See !  see !  the  wan  and  whitening  window-pane ! 

See,  in  the  night,  the  awful  morning  bloom  ! 
Too  late  she  will  know  all !     Heaven !  send  thy  rain 
Of  death,  nor  let  the  sun  of  waking  come ! 


180  THE  NEW  DAY. 


III. 

I  MET  A  TRAVELLER  ON  THE  ROAD. 

I  MET  a  traveller  on  the  road 
Whose  back  was  bent  beneath  a  load; 
His  face  was  worn  with  mortal  care, 
His  frame  beneath  its  burden  shook, 
Yet  onward,  restless,  he  did  fare 
With  mien  unyielding,  fixed,  a  look 
Set  forward  in  the  empty  air 
As  if  he  read  an  unseen  book. 

What  was  it  in  his  smile  that  stirred 
My  soul  to  pity  !     When  I  drew 
More  near  it  seemed  as  if  I  heard 
The  broken  echo  of  a  tune 
Learned  in  some  far  and  happy  June. 
His  lips  were  parted,  but  unmoved 
By  words.     He  sang  as  dreamers  do, 
And  not  as  if  he  heard  and  loved 
The  song  he  sang :     I  hear  it  now ! 


THE  NEW  DAY.  181 

He  stood  beside  the  level  brook, 
Nor  quenched  his  thirst,  nor  bathed  his  brow, 
Nor  from  his  back  the  burden  shook. 
He  stood,  and  yet  he  did  not  rest; 
His  eyes  climbed  up  in  aimless  quest, 
Then  close  did  to  that  mirror  bow- — 
And,  looking  down,  I  saw  in  place 
Of  his,  my  own  familiar  face. 


1 82  THE  NEW  DAY. 


IV. 

WRITTEN    ON     A    FLY-LEAF    OF    "SHAKE 
SPEARE'S   SONNETS." 

WHEN  shall  true  love  be  love  without  alloy  : 
Shine  free  at  last  from  sinful  circumstance! 
When  shall  the  canker  of  unheavenly  chance 
Eat  not  the  bud  of  that  most  heavenly  joy ! 

When  shall  true  love  meet  love  not  as  a  coy 
Retreating  light  that  leads  a  deathful  dance, 
But  as  a  firm  fixed  fire  that  doth  enhance 
The  beauty  of  all  beauty!     Will  the  employ 

Of  poets  ever  be  too  well  to  show 

That  mightiest  love  with  sharpest  pain  doth  writhe; 
That  underneath  the  fair,  caressing  glove 

Hides  evermore  the  iron  hand;    and  though 
Love's  flower  alone  is  good,  if  we  would  prove 
Its  perfect  bloom,  our  breath  slays  like  a  scythe ! 


THE   NEW  DAY,  183 


V. 

"AND    WERE    THAT    BEST!" 

AND  were  that  best,  Love,  dreamless,  endless  sleep! 

Gone  all  the  fury  of  the  mortal  day; 

The  daylight  gone,  and  gone  the  starry  ray ! 

And  were  that  best,  Love,  rest  serene  and  deep! 
Gone  labor  and  desire;    no  arduous  steep 

To  climb,  no  songs  to  sing,  no  prayers  to  pray, 

No  help  for  those  who  perish  by  the  way, 

No  laughter  'midst  our  tears,  no  tears  to  weep  ! 
And  were  that  best,  Love,  sleep  with  no  dear  dream, 

Nor  memory  of  any  thing  in  life — 

Stark  death  that  neither  help  nor  hurt  can  know! 
Oh,  rather,  Love,  the  sorrow-bringing  gleam, 

The  living  day's  long  agony  and  strife! 

Rather  strong  love  in  pain — the  waking  woe! 


184  THE  NEW  DAY. 


VI. 


"THERE  IS  NOTHING  NEW  UNDER  THE 

SUN." 

THERE  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun; 

There  is  no  new  hope  or  despair; 
The  agony  just  begun 

Is  as  old  as  the  earth  and  the  air. 
My  secret  soul  of  bliss 

Is  one  with  the  singing  star's, 
And  the  ancient  mountains  miss 

No  hurt  that  my  being  mars. 

I  know  as  I  know  my  life, 

I  know  as  I  know  my  pain, 
That  there  is  no  lonely  strife, 

That  he  is  mad  who  would  gain 
A  separate  balm  for  his  woe, 

A  single  pity  and  cover: 
The  one  great  God  I  know 

Hears  the  same  prayer  over  and  OVLT. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  185 

I  know  it  because  at  the  portal 

Of  Heaven  I  bowed  and  cried, 
And  I  said,  "  Was  ever  a  mortal 

Thus  crowned  and  crucified! 
My  praise  thou  hast  made  my  blame; 

My  best  thou  hast  made  my  worst; 
My  good  thou  hast  turned  to  shame; 

My  drink  is  a  flaming  thirst." 

But  scarce  my  prayer  was  said 

Ere  from  that  place  I  turned ; 
I  trembled,  I  hung  my  head,. 

My  cheek,  shame-smitten,  burned: 
For  there  where  I  bowed  down 

In  my  boastful  agony, 
I  thought  of  thy  cross  and  crown, — 

O  Christ !    I  remembered  thee. 


26 


1 86  THE  NEW  DAY. 


VII. 

LOVE'S   CRUELTY. 

"And  this,  then,  is  thy  love,"  I  hear  thee  say, 
"  And  dost  thou  love,  and  canst  thou  torture  so  ? 
Ah,  spare  me,  if  thou  lov'st  me,  this  last  woe !  " 
But  I  am  not  my  own;    I  must  obey 

My  master ;    I  am  slave  to  LOVE  ;   his  sway 
Is  cruel  as  the  grave.     When  he  says  Go ! 
I  go ;   when  he  says  Come !  I  come.     I  know 
No  law  but  his.     When  he  says  Slay !  I  slay. 

As  cruel  as  the  grave      Yes — crueller. 
Cruel  as  light  that  pours  its  stinging  flood 
Across  the  dark,  and  makes  an  anguished  stir 

Of  life.     Cruel  as  life  that  sends  through  blood 
Of  mortal  the  immortal  pang  and  spur. 
Cruel  as  thy  remorseless  maidenhood. 


INTERLUDE. 


cloud  was  thick  that  hid  the  sun  from  sight 
A     And  over  all  a  shadowy  roof  outspread, 
Making  the  day  dim  with  another  night — 
Not  dark  like  that  vhich  passed,  but  oh !  more  dread 
For  the  clear  sunlight  that  had  gone  before 
And  prophecy  of  that  which  yet  should  be. 
Like  snow  at  night  the  wind-blown  hills  of  sand 
Shone  with  an  inward  light  far  down  the  land: 
Beneath  the  lowering  sky  black  was  the  sea 
Across  whose  waves  a  bird  came  flying  low — 
Borne  swift  on  the  wind  with  wing-beat  halt  and  slow  — 
From  out  the  dull  east  toward  the  foamy  shore. 
There  was  an  awful  waiting  in  the  earth 
As  if  a  mystery  greatened  to  its  birth  : 
Though  late  it  seemed,  the  day  was  just  begun 
When  lo  !  at  last,  the  many-colored  bow 
Stood  in  the  heavens  over  against  the  sun. 


PART    III. 


"  MY  LOVE  FOR  THEE  DOTH  MARCH  LIKE 
ARMED  MEN." 

MY  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men 
Against  a  queenly  city  they  would  take. 
Along  the  army's  front  its  banners  shake; 
Across  the  mountain  and  the  sun-smit  plain 

It  steadfast  sweeps  as  sweeps  the  steadfast  rain; 
And  now  the  trumpet  makes  the  still  air  quake, 
And  now  the  thundering  cannon  doth  awake 
Echo  on  echo,  echoing  loud  again. 

But,  lo  !  the  conquest  higher  than  bard  had  sung ; 
Instead  of  answering  cannon  comes  a  small 
White  flag;  the  iron  gates  are  open  flung, 

And  flowers  along  the  invaders'  pathway  fall. 
The  city's  conquerors  feast  their  foes  among, 
And  their  brave  flags  are  trophies  on  her  wall. 
193 


194  THE  NEW  DAY. 


II. 

"I    WILL    BE    BRAVE    FOR    THEE." 

I  WILL  be  brave  for  thee,  dear  heart ;    for  thee 
My  boasted  bravery  forego.     I  will 
For  thee  be  wise,  or  lose  my  little  skill, — 
Coward  or  brave;   wise,  foolish;   bond  or  free. 

No  grievous  cost  in  anything  I  see 

That  brings  thee  bliss,  or  only  keeps  thee,  still, 
In  painless  peace.  So  Heaven  thy  cup  but  fill, 
Be  empty  mine  unto  eternity! 

Come  to  me,  Love,  and  let  me  touch  thy  face ! 
Lean  to  me,  Love, — breathe  on  me  thy  dear  breath! 
Fly  from  me,  Love,  to  some  far  hiding-place, 

If  thy  one  thought  of  me  or  hindereth 

Or  hurteth  thy  sweet  soul — then  grant  me  grace 
To  be  forgotten,  though  that  grace  be  death! 


THE  NEW  DAY.  195 


III. 


LOVE  ME  NOT,  LOVE,  FOR   THAT  I  FIRST 
LOVED   THEE." 

LOVE  me  not,  Love,  for  that  I  first  loved  thee, 
Nor  love  me,  Love,  for  thy  dear  pity's  sake, 
In  knowledge  of  the  mortal  pain  and  ache 
Which  is  the  fruit  of  love's  blood-veined  tree. 

Let  others  for  my  love  give  love  to  me: 
From  other  souls  oh,  gladly  will  I  take, 
This  burning,  heart-dry  thirst  of  love  to  slake, 
What  seas  of  human  pity  there  may  be  I 

Nay,  nay,  I  care  no  more  how  love  may  grow, 
So  that  I  hear  thee  answer  to  my  call ! 
Love  me  because  my  piteous  tears  do  flow, 

Or  that  my  love  for  thee  did  first  befall. 
Love  me  or  late  or  early,  fast  or  slow : 
But  love  me,  Love,  for  love  is  one  and  all ! 


196  THE  NEW  DAY. 


IV. 
BODY    AND    SOUL. 


O  THOU  my  Love,  love  first  my  lonely  soul! 
Then  shall  this  too  unworthy  body  of  mine 
Be  loved  by  right  and  accident  divine. 
Forget  the  flesh,  that  the  pure  spirit's  goal 

May  be  the  spirit;   let  that  stand  the  whole 
Of  what  thou  lov'st  in  me.     So  will  the  shine 
Of  soul  that  strikes  on  soul  make  fair  and  fine 
This  earthy  tenement.     Thou  shalt  extol 

The  inner,  that  the  outer  lovelier  seem. 

Remember  well  that  thy  true  love  doth  fear 
No  deadlier  foe  than  the  impassioned  dream 

Should    drive    thee    to   him,  and  should   hold    thee 

near — 

Near  to  the  body,  not  the  soul  of  him. 
Love  first  my  soul  and  then  both  will  be  dear. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  197 


II. 

BUT,  Love,  for  me  thy  body  was  the  first. 
One  day  I  wandered  idly  through  the  town, 
Then  entered  a  cathedral's  silence  brown 
Which  sudden  thrilled  with  a  strange  heavenly  burst 

Of  light  and  music.     Lo !  that  traveller  durst 
Do  nothing  now  but  worship  and  fall  down. 
He  thought  to  rest,  as  doth  some  tired  clown 
Who  sinks  in  longed-for  sleep,  but  there  immersed 

Finds  restless  vision  on  vision  of  beauty  rare. 
Moved  by  thy  body's  outer  majesty 
I  entered  in  thy  silent,  sacred  shrine  : 

'Twas  then,  all  suddenly  and  unaware, 

Thou  didst  reveal,  O  maiden  Love !  to  me, 
This   beautiful,  singing,  holy  soul  of  thine. 


198  THE  NEW  DAY. 


V. 


"THY  LOVER,  LOVE,  WOULD   HAVE  SOME 
NOBLER  WAY." 

THY  lover,  Love,  would  have  some  nobler  way 
To  tell  his  love,  his  noble  love  to  tell, 
Than  rhymes  set  ringing  like  a  silver  bell. 
Oh,  he  would  lead  an  army,  great  and  gay, 

From  conquering  to  conquer,  day  by  day  ! 
And  when  the  walls  of  a  proud  citadel 
At  summons  of  his  guns  loud-echoing  fell, — 
That  thunder  to  his  Love  should  murmuring  say : 

Thee  only  do  I  love,  dear  Love  of  mine ! 

And  while  men  cried :  Behold  how  brave  a  fight ! 
She  should  read  well,  oh  well !  each  new  emprise  : 

This  to  her  lips,  this  to  my  lady's  eyes! 

And  though  the  world  were  conquered,  line  on  line, 
Still  would  his  love  seem  speechless,  day  and  night. 


THE  NEW  DAY, 


199 


VI. 

"WHAT  WOULD  I  SAVE  THEE  FROM?" 

WHAT  would  I  save  thee  from,  dear  heart,  dear  heart  ? 

Not  from  what  Heaven  may  send  thee  of  its  pain; 

Not  from  fierce  sunshine  or  the  scathing  rain : 

The  pang  of  pleasure ;  passion's  wound  and  smart  ; 
Not  from  the  scorn  and  sorrow  of  thine  art; 

Nor  loss  of  faithful  friends,  nor  any  gain 

Of  growth  by  grief.     I  would  not  thee  restrain 

From  needful  death.     But  O,  thou  other  part 
Of  me !  —  through  whom  the  whole  world  I  behold, 

As  through  the  blue  I  see  the  stars  above! 

In  whom  the  world  I  find,  hid  fold  on  fold! 
Thee  would  I  save  from  this — nay,  do  not  move! 

Fear  not,  it  may  not  flash,  the  air  is  cold; 

Save  thee  from  this — the  lightning  of  my  love. 


200  THE  NEW  DA  Y. 


VII. 


LOVE'S   JEALOUSY. 

OF  other  men  I  know  no  jealousy, 

Nor  of  the  maid  who  holds  thee  close,  oh  close! 
But  of  the  June-red,  summer-scented  rose, 
And  of  the  orange-streaked  sunset  sky 

That  wins  the  soul  of  thee  through  thy  deep  eye ; 
And  of  the  breeze  by  thee  beloved,  that  goes 
O'er  thy  dear  hair  and  brow;    the  song  that  flows 
Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  where  it  may  die. 

I  would  I  were  one  moment  that  sweet  show 
Of  flower ;    or  breeze  beloved  that  toucheth  all ; 
Or  sky  that  through  the  summer  eve  doth  burn. 

I  would  I  were  the  song  thou  lovest  so, 
At  sound  of  me  to  have  thine  eyelid  fall : 
But  I  would  then  to  something  human  turn. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  201 


VIII. 

LOVE'S  MONOTONE. 

THOU  art  so  used,  Love,  to  thine  own  bird's  song,- 
Sung  to  thine  ear  in  love's  low  monotone, 
Sung  to  thee  only,  Love,  to  thee  alone 
Of  all  the  listening  world, — that  I  among 

My  doubts  find  this  the  leader  of  the  throng: 
Haply  the  music  hath  accustomed  grown 
And  no  more  music  is  to  thee;   my  own 
Too  faithful  argument  works  its  own  wrong. 

Ah  Love,  and  must  I  learn  for  thy  sweet  sake 
The  art  of  silence !     Shut  from  me  the  light 
Of  thy  dear  face  then,  lest  the  music  wake ! 

Yet  should  thy  bird  at  last  fall  silent  quite, 
Would  not  thy  heart  an  unused  sorrow  take? 
— Think  not  of  me  but  of  thyself  to-night. 


202  THE  NEW  DAY. 

IX. 

"ONCE    ONLY." 

ONCE  only,  Love,  may  love's  sweet  song  be  sung; 
But  once,  Love,  at  our  feet  love's  flower  is  flung; 
Once,  Love,  once  only,  Love,  can  we  be  young: 
Say  shall  we  love,  dear  Love,  or  shall  we  hate ! 

Once  only,  Love,  will  burn  the  blood-red  fire; 
But  once  awakeneth  the  wild  desire ; 
Love  pleadeth  long,  but  what  if  Love  should  tire! 
Now  shall  we  love,  dear  Love,  or  shall  we  wait ! 

The  day  is  short,  the  evening  cometh  fast; 
The  time  of  choosing,  Love,  will  soon  be  past; 
The  outer  darkness  falleth,  Love,  at  last: 

Love,  let  us  love  ere  it  be  late, — too  late! 


THE  NEW  DAY.  203 

X. 

DENIAL. 

WHEN  some  new  thought  of  love  in  me  is  born 
Then  swift  I  seek  a  token  fair  and  meet 
That  may  unblamed  thy  blessed  vision  greet; 
Whether  it  be  a  rose,  not  bloodless  torn 

From  that  June  tree  which  hideth  many  a  thorn, 
Or  but  a  simple,  loving  message,  sweet 
With  summer's  heart  and  mine  :  these  at  thy  feet 
I  straightway  fling — but  all  with  maiden  scorn 

Thou  spurnest.  What  to  thee  is  token  or  sign, 
Who  dost  deny  the  thing  wherefor  it  stands ! 
Then  I  seem  foolish  in  my  sight  and  thine, 

Like  one  who  eager  proffers  empty  hands. 
Thou  only  callest  these  my  gifts  unfine, 
While  men  are  praising  them  in  distant  lands. 


204  THE  NEW  DAY. 


XI. 


"ONCE    WHEN    WE    WALKED    WITHIN    A 
SUMMER    FIELD." 

ONCE  when  we  walked  within  a  summer  field 
I  plucked  the  flower  of  immortality, 
And  said,  "  Dear  Love  of  mine,  I  give  to  thee 
This  flower  of  flowers  of  all  the  round  year's  yield! " 

'Twas   then   thou   stood'st,  and  with  one  hand   didst 

shield 

Thy  sun-dazed  eyes,  and,  flinging  the  other  free, 
Spurned  from  thee  that  white  blossom  utterly. 
But,  Love!  the  immortal  can  not  so  be  killed. 

The  generations  shall  behold  thee  stand 

Against  that  western  glow  in  grass  dew- wet — 
Lord  of  my  life,  and  lady  of  the  land. 

Nor  maid  nor  lover  shall  the  world  forget, 
Nor  that  disdainful  wafture  of  thy  hand. 
Thou  scornful !  sun  and  flower  shall  find  thee  yet. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  205 


XII. 

SONG. 

I  LOVE  her  gentle  forehead, 

And  I  love  her  tender  hair; 
I  love  her  cool,  white  arms, 

And  her  neck  where  it  is  bare. 

I  love  the  smell  of  her  garments; 

I  love  the  touch  of  her  hands; 
I  love  the  sky  above  her, 

And  the  very  ground  where  she  stands. 

I  love  her  doubting  and  anguish; 

I  love  the  love  she  withholds; 
I  love  my  love  that  loveth  her 

And  anew  her  being  moulds. 


206  THE  NEW  DA  Y. 

XIII. 

LISTENING  TO  MUSIC. 

WHEN  on  that  joyful  sea 

Where    billow  on    billow    breaks ;    where  swift  waves 

follow 

Waves,  and  hollow  calls  to  hollow ; 
Where  sea-birds  swirl  and  swing. 
And  winds  through  the  rigging  shrill  and  sing ; 
Where  night  is  night  without  a  shade ; 
Where  thy  soul  not  afraid, 
Though  all  alone  unlonely, 
Wanders  and  wavers,  wavers  wandering:  — 
On  that  accursed  sea 
One  moment  only, 

Forget  one  moment,  Love,  thy  fierce  content ; 
Back  let  thy  soul  be  bent — 
Think  back,  dear  Love,  O  Love,  think  back  to  me! 


THE  NEW  DAY.  207 


XIV. 

"A    SONG    OF    THE    MAIDEN    MORN," 

A  SONG  of  the  maiden  morn, 
A  song  for  my  little  maid, 
Of  the  silver  sunlight  born ! 

But  I  am  afraid,  afraid, 

When  I  come  my  maid  may  be 

Nothing,  there,  but  a  shade. 

But  oh,  her  shadow  is  more  to  me 
Than  the  shadowless  light  of  eternity! 


208  THE  NEW  DAY. 


XV. 

WORDS   IN   ABSENCE. 

I  WOULD  that  my  words  were  as  my  fingers, 

So  that  my  Love  might  feel  them  move 
Slowly  over  her  brow,  as  lingers 

The  sunset  wind  o'er  the  world  of  its  love. 
I  would  that  my  words  were  as  the  beating 
Of  her  own  heart,  that  keeps  repeating 

My  name  through  the  livelong  day  and  the  night ; 
And  when  my  Love  her  lover  misses — 

Longs  for  and  loves  in  the  dark  and  the  light — 
I  would  that  my  words  were  as  my  kisses. 
I  would  that  my  words  her  life  might  fill, 

Be  to  her  earth,  and  air,  and  skies. 
I  would  that  my  words  were  hushed  and  still — 

Lost  in  the  light  of  her  eyes. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 


209 


XVI. 

SONG. 

THE  birds  were  singing,  the  skies  were  gay: 

I  looked  from  the  window  on  meadow  and  wood, 
On  green,  green  grass  that  the  sun  made  white; 
Beyond  the  river  the  mountain  stood, — 

Blue  was  the  mountain,  the  river  was  bright : 
I  looked  on  the  land  and  it  was  not  good, 
For  my  own  dear  Love  she  had  flown  away. 


29 


2io  THE  NEW  DAY. 

XVII. 

THISTLE-DOWN. 

FLY,  thistle-down,  fly 

From  my  lips  to  the  lips  that  I  love ! 

Fly  through  the  morning  light, 

Flee  through  the  shadowy  night, 

Over  the  sea  and  the  land, 

Quick  as  the  lark 

Through  twilight  and  dark, 

Through  lightning  and  thunder; 

Till  no  longer  asunder 

We  stand; 

For  thy  touch  like  the  lips  of  her  lover 

Moves  her  being  to  mine, — 

We  are  one  in  a  swoon  divine! 

Fly,  thistle-down,  fly 

From  my  lips  to  the  lips  that  I  love ! 


THE  NEW  DAY.  211 


XVIII. 

"O    SWEET  WILD    ROSES   THAT    BUD    AND 
BLOW." 

O  SWEET  wild  roses  that  bud  and  blow 
Along  the  way  that  my  Love  may  go ; 
O  moss-green  rocks  that  touch  her  dress, 
And  grass  that  her  dear  feet  may  press; 

O  maple  tree  whose  brooding  shade 
For  her  a  summer  tent  has  made; 
O  golden-rod  and  brave  sun-flower 
That  flame  before  my  maiden's  bower ; 

O  butterfly  on  whose  light  wings 
The  golden  summer  sunshine  clings; 
O  birds  that  flit  o'er  wheat  and  wall, 
And  from  cool  hollows  pipe  and  call; 

O  falling  water  whose  distant  roar 
Sounds  like  the  waves  upon  the  shore; 


212  THE  NEW  DAY. 

O  winds  that  down  the  valley  sweep, 
And  lightnings  from  the  clouds  that  leap; 

O  skies  that  bend  above  the  hills, 

O  gentle  rains  and  babbling  rills, 

O  moon  and  sun  that  beam  and  burn — 

Keep  safe  my  Love  till  I  return! 


THE  NEW  DAY.  213 

XIX. 

THE    RIVER. 

I  KNOW  thou  art  not  that  brown  mountain-side, 
Nor  the  pale  mist  that  lies  along  the  hills 
And  with  white  joy  the  deepening  valley  fills; 
Nor  yet  the  solemn  river  moving  wide 

Into  that  valley,  where  the  hills  abide 

But   whence    those    morning    clouds    on    noiseless 

wheels 

Shall  lingering  lift  and,  as  the  moonlight  steals 
From  out  the  heavens,  so    into   the   heavens  shall 
glide. 

I  know  thou  art  not  this  gray  rock  that  looms 
Above  the  water,  fringed  with  scarlet  vine; 
Nor  flame  of  burning  meadow;  nor  the  sedge 

That  sways  and  trembles  at  the  river's  edge. 

But  through  all  these,  dear  heart !  to  me  there  comes 
Some  melancholy,  absent  look  of  thine. 


214  THE  NEW  DAY. 


XX. 

THE    LOVER'S    LORD    AND    MASTER. 

I  PRAY  thee,  dear,  think  not  alone  of  me, 

But  think  sometimes  of  my  great  master,  LOVE; 
His  faithful  slave  he  is  so  far  above 
That  for  his  sake  I  would  forgotten  be: 

Though  well  I  know  that  hidden  thus  from  thee 
Not  far  away  my  image  then  might  rove, 
And  his  sweet,  heavenly  countenance  would  move 
Ever  thy  soul  to  gentler  charity : 

So  when  thy  lover's  self  leaps  from  his  song, 
Thou  him  might  love  not  less  for  his  fair  Lord. 
But  that  thy  love  for  me  grow  never  small 

(As  bow  long  bent  twangs  not  the  arrowed  cord, 
And  he  doth  lose  his  star  who  looks  too  long), 
Sometimes,  dear  heart,  think  not  of  me  at  all. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  215 

XXI. 

"A  NIGHT  OF  STARS  AND  DREAMS." 

A  NIGHT  of  stars  and  dreams,  of  dreams  and  sleep; 

A  waking  into  another  empty  day — 

But  not  unlovely  all,  for  then  I  say, 

"  To-morrow ! "    Through  the  hours  this  light  doth 

creep 
Higher  in  the  heavens,  as  down  the  heavenly  steep 

Sinks  the  slow  sun.     Another  evening  gray, 

Made  glorious  by  the  morn  that  comes   that  way; 

Another  night,  and  then  To-day  doth  leap 
Upon  the  world!    Oh  quick  the  hours  do  fly, 

Of  that  new  day  which  brings  the  moment  when 

We  meet  at  last !    Swift  up  the  shaking  sky 
Rushes  the  sun  from  out  its  dismal  den; 

And  then  the  wished  for  time  doth  yearn  more  nigh, 

A  white  robe  glimmering  in  the  dark — and  then! 


216  THE  NEW  DAY. 


XXII. 

A  BIRTHDAY  SONG. 

I  THOUGHT  this  day  to  bring  to  thee 
A  flower  that  grows  on  the  red  rose  tree. 
I  searched  the  branches, —  oh,  despair! 
Of  roses  every  branch  was  bare. 

I  thought  to  sing  thee  a  birthday  song 
As  wild  as  my  love,  as  deep  and  strong. 
The  song  took  wing  like  a  frightened  bird, 
And  its  music  my  maiden  never  heard. 

But,  Love!  the  flower  and  the  song  divine 

One  day  of  the  year  shall  yet  be  thine; 

And  thou  shalt  be  glad  when  the  rose   I   bring, 

And  weep  for  joy  at  the  song  I  sing. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 


217 


XXIII. 

'WHAT  CAN  LOVE  DO  FOR  THEE,  LOVE?" 

WHAT  can  love  do  for  thee,  Love? 

Can  it  make  the  green  fields  greener; 

Bluer  the  skies,  and  bluer 

The  eyes  of  the  blue-eyed  flowers? 

Can  it  make  the  May-day  showers 

More  warm  and  sweet;  serener 

The  heavens  after  the  rain  ? 

The  sunset's  radiant  splendor 

More  exquisite  and  tender  — 

The  Northern  Star  more  sure  ? 

Can  it  take  the  pang  from  pain  ? 

(O  Love !  remember  the  curtain 

Of  cloud  that  lifted  last  night 

And  showed  the  silver  light 

Of  a  star!)      Can  it  make  more  certain 

The  heart  of  the  heart  of  all — 

3° 


2i8  THE  NEW  DAY. 

The  good  that  works  at  the  root — 

The  singing  soul  of  love 

That  throbs  in  flower  and  fruit, 

In  man  and  earth  and  brute, 

In  hell,  and  heaven  above  ? 

Can  its  low  voice  musical 

Make  dear  the  day  and  the  night? 


THE  NEW  DAY.  219 


XXIV. 

FRANCESCA  AND  PAOLO. 

WITHIN  the  second  dolorous  circle  where 
The  lost  are  whirled,  lamenting — thou  and  I 
Stood,  Love,  to-day  with  Dante.     Silently 
We  looked  upon  the  black  and  trembling  air: 

When  lo!  from  out  that  darkness  of  despair 
Two  shadows  light  upon  the  wind  drew  nigh, 
Whose  very  motion  seemed  to  breathe  a  sigh : 
And  there  Francesca,  and  her  lover  there. 

These  when  we  saw,  the  wounds  whereat  they  bled, 
Their  love  which  was  not  with  their  bodies  slain  — 
These  when  we  saw,  great  were  the  tears  we  shed : 

As,  Love,  for  thee  and  me  love's  tears  shall  rain  — 
The  mortal  agony,  the  nameless  dread; 
The  longing,  and  the  passion,  and  the  pain. 


220  THE  NEW  DAY. 


XXV. 

THE  UNKNOWN  WAY. 

Two  travellers  met  upon  a  plain 

Where  two  straight,  narrow  pathways  crossed; 

They  met  and,  with  a  still  surprise, 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 

And  knew  that  never,  oh,  never  again! 

Could  one  from  the  other  soul  be  lost. 

But  lo!  these  narrow  pathways  lead 
Now  each  from  each  apart,  and  lo! 
In  neither  pathway  can  they  go 
Together,  in  their  new,  strange  need. 

Far-off  the  purple  mountains  loom — 
Vague  and  far-off,  and  fixed  as  fate — 
Which  hide  from  sight  that  land  unknown 
Where,  ever,  like  a  carven  stone 
The  setting  sun  doth  stand  and  wait, 


THE  NEW  DAY.  221 

And  men  cry  not,  "  Too  late !  too  late ! " 
And  sorrow  turns  to  a  golden  gloom. 

But  oh,  the  long  journey  all  unled 
By  track  of  traveller  o'er  the  plain — 
The  stony  desert,  bleak  and  rude, 
The  bruised  feet  and  the  tired  brain : 
And  oh,  the  two-fold   solitude, 
The  doubt,  the  danger  and  the  dread! 


222  THE  NEW  DAY. 


XXVI. 
THE  SOWER. 


A  SOWER  went  forth  to  sow, 

His  eyes  were  dark  with  woe; 

He  crushed  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet, 

Nor  smelt  the  perfume,  warm  and  sweet, 

That  prayed  for  pity  everywhere. 

He  came  to  a  field  that  was   harried 

By  iron,  and  to  heaven  laid  bare: 

He  shook  the  seed  that  he  carried 

O'er  that  brown  and  bladeless  place. 

He  shook  it,  as  God  shakes  hail 

Over  a  doomed  land, 

When  lightnings  interlace 

The  sky  and  the  earth,  and  his  wand 

Of  love  is  a  thunder-flail. 


THE  NEW  DA  Y.  223 

Thus  did  that  Sower  sow; 
His  seed  was  human  blood, 
And  tears  of  women  and  men. 
And  I,  who  near  him  stood, 
Said :    When  the  crop  comes,  then 
There  will  be  sobbing  and  sighing, 
Weeping  and  wailing  and  crying, 
Flame,  and  ashes,  and  woe. 


ii. 

It  was  an  autumn  day 

When  next  I  went  that  way. 

And  what,  think  you,  did  I  see, — 

What  was  it  that  I  heard, — 

What  music  was  in  the  air? 

The  song  of  a  sweet- voiced  bird  ? 

Nay  —  but  the  songs  of  many, 

Thrilled  through  with  praise  and  prayer. 

Of  all  those  voices  not  any 

Were  sad  of  memory : 

But  a  sea  of  sunlight  flowed, 

And  a  golden  harvest  glowed ! 


224 


THE  NEW  DAY. 

And  I  said  :    Thou  only  art  wise — 
God  of  the  earth  and  skies ! 
And  I  thank  thee,  again  and  again, 
For  the  Sower  whose  name  is  Pain. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 


22$ 


XXVII. 

"WHEN  THE  LAST  DOUBT  IS   DOUBTED." 

WHEN  the  last  doubt  is  doubted, 
The  last  black  shadow  flown ; 
When  the  last  foe  is  routed; 

When  the  night  is  over  and  gone : 
Then,  Love,  oh  then!  there  will  be  rest  and  peace: 
Sweet  peace  and  rest  that  never  thou  hast  known. 

When  the  hope  that  in  thee  moveth 

Is  born  and  brought  to  sight; 
When  past  is  the  pain  that  proveth 

The  worth  of  thy  new  delight: 
Oh  then,  Love !   then  there  will  be  joy  and  peace : 
Deep  peace  and  joy,  bright  morning  after  night. 


INTERLUDE: 


AS  melting  snow  leaves  bare  the  mountain-side 
In  spaces  that  grow  wider  and  more  wide, 
So  melted  from  the  sky  the  cloudy  veil 
That  hid  the  face  of  sunrise.     Land  and  ledge 
And  waste  of  glittering  waters  sent  a  glare 
Back  to  the  smiting  sun.     The  trembling  air 
Lay,  sea  on  sea,  along  the  horizon's  edge; 
And  on  that  upper  ocean,  clear  as  glass, 
The  tall  ships  followed  with  deep-mirrored  sail 
Like  clouds  wind-moved  that  follow  and  that  pass; 
And  on  that  upper  ocean,  far  and  fair, 
Floated  low  islands  all  unseen  before. 
Green  grew  the  ocean  shaken  through  with  light, 

And  blue  the  heavens  faint-flecked  with  plumy  white. 

229 


230  THE  NEW  DAY, 

Like  pennants  on  the  wind,  from  o'er  the  rocks 
The  birds  whirled  seaward  in  shrill-piping  flocks: 
And  through  the  dawn,  as  through  the  shadowy  night, 
The  sound  of  waves  that  break  upon  the  shore ! 


PART    IV, 


SONG. 

LOVE,  Love,  my  love, 
The  best  things  are  the  truest! 
When  the  earth  lies  shadowy  dark  below 

Oh  then  the  heavens  are  bluest! 
Deep  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

And  sharp  the  gleam  of  the  stars, 
And  oh,  more  bright  against  the  night 
The  Aurora's  crimson  bars! 


233 


234  THE  NEW  DAY. 


II. 

THE    MIRROR. 

THAT  I  should  love  thee  seemeth  meet  and  wise, 
So  beautiful  thou  art  that  he  were  mad 
Who  in  thy  countenance  no  pleasure  had; 
Who  felt  not  the  still  music  of  thine  eyes 

Fall  on  his  forehead,  as  the  evening  skies 
The  music  of  the  stars  feel  and  are  glad. 
But  o'er  my  mind  one  doubt  still  cast  a  shade 
Till  in  my  thoughts  this  answer  did  arise: 

That  thou  shouldst  love  me  is  not  wise  or  meet, 
For  like  thee,  Love,  I  am  not  beautiful. 
And  yet  I  think  that  haply  in  my  face 

Thou  findest  a  true  beauty — this  poor,  dull, 
Disfigured  mirror  dimly  may  repeat 
A  little  part  of  thy  most  heavenly  grace. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 


235 


III. 

LIKENESS  IN  UNLIKENESS. 

WE  are  alike,  and  yet — oh  strange  and  sweet!  — 
Each  in  the  other  difference  discerns: 
So  the  torn  strands  the  maiden's  finger  turns 
Opposing  ways,  when  they  again  do  meet 

Clasp  each  in  each,  as  flame  clasps  into  heat; 
So  when  my  hand  on  my  cool  bosom  burns, 
Each  sense  is  lost  in  the  other.     So  two  urns 
Do,  side  by  side,  the  self-same  lines  repeat, 

But  various  color  gives  a  lovelier  grace, 

And  each  by  contrast  still  more  fine  has  grown. 
Thus,  Love,  it  was,  I  did  forget  thy  face 

As  more  and  more  to  me  thy  soul  was  known; 
Vague  in  my  mind  it  grew  till,  in  its  place, 
Another  came  I  knew  not  from  my  own. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 


IV. 

SONG. 

NOT  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee- 
Sweetheart,  light  of  the  land  and  the  sea! 

The  wide,  wide  world  could  not  inclose  thee, 
For  thou  art  the  whole  wide  world  to  me. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  237 


V. 

ALL    IN    ONE. 

ONCE  when  a  maiden  maidenly  went  by, 
Or  when  I  found  some  wonder  in  the  grass, 
Or  when  a  purple  sunset  slow  did  pass, 
Or  a  great  star  rushed  silent  through  the  sky ; 

Once  when  I  heard  a  singing  ecstasy, 

Or  saw  the  moon's  face  in  the  river's  glass — 
Then  I  remembered  that  for  me,  alas! 
This  beauty  must  for  ever  and  ever  die. 

But  now  I  may  thus  sorrow  never  more; 

From  fleeting  beauty  thou  hast  torn  the  pall, 
For  of  all  beauty,  Love,  thou  art  the  core; 

And  though  the  empty  shadow  fading  fall, — 
Though  lesser  birds  lift  up  their  wings  and  soar, 
In  having  thee  alone,  Love,  I  have  all. 


238  THE  NEW  DAY. 


VI. 

"I    COUNT    MY  TIME    BY  TIMES   THAT    I 
MEET    THEE." 

I  COUNT  my  time  by  times  that  I  meet  thee; 

These  are  my  yesterdays,  my  morrows,  noons 

And    nights;     these   my  old   moons    and    my  new 
moons. 

Slow  fly  the  hours,  or  fast  the  hours  do  flee, 
If  thou  art  far  from  or  art  near  to  me : 

If  thou  art  far,  the  birds'  tunes  are  no  tunes ; 

If  thou  art  near,  the  wintry  days  are  Junes, — 

Darkness  is  light,  and  sorrow  cannot  be. 
Thou  art  my  dream  come  true,  and  thou  my  dream. 

The  air  I  breathe,  the  world  wherein  I  dwell; 

My  journey's  end  thou  art,  and  thou  the  way ; 
Thou  art  what  I  would  be,  yet  only  seem; 

Thou  art  my  heaven  and  thou  art  my  hell; 

Thou  art  my  ever-living  judgment  day. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 


239 


VII. 

SONG. 

YEARS  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first, 
And  I  know  thee  as  water  is  known  of  thirst: 
Yet  I  knew  thee  of  old  at  the  first  sweet  sight, 
And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  Love,  to-night. 


240  THE  NEW  DA  Y. 

VIII. 

THE   SEASONS. 

O    STRANGE    Spring    days,  when    from    the   shivering 

ground 

Love  riseth,  wakening  from  his  dreamful  swound 
And,  frightened,  in  the  stream  his  face  hath  found! 

O  Summer  days,  when  Love  hath  grown  apace, 

And  feareth  not  to  look  upon  Love's  face, 

And  lightnings  burn  where  earth  and  sky  embrace  ! 

O  Autumn,  when  the  winds  are  dank  and  dread, 
How  brave  above  the  dying  and  the  dead 
The  conqueror,  Love,  uplifts  his  banner  red ! 

O  Winter,  when  the  earth  lies  white  and  chill! 
Now  only  hath  strong  Love  his  perfect  will 
Whom  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  death  can  bind  nor  kill. 


7'HE  NEW  DAY.  241 


IX. 

"SUMMER'S   RAIN    AND    WINTER'S    SNOW." 

SUMMER'S  rain  and  winter's  snow 
With  the  seasons  come  and  go; 

Shine  and  shower; 
Tender  bud  and  perfect  flower; 
Silver  blossom,  golden  fruit; 

Song  and  lute, 

With  their  inward  sound  of  pain : 
Winter's  snow  and  summer's  rain; 

Frost  and  fire  ; 

Joy  beyond  the  heart's  desire, — 
And  our  June  comes  round  again. 


33 


242  THE  NEW  DAY. 


X. 

THE    VIOLIN. 

BEFORE  the  listening  world  behold  him  stand, 
The  warm  air  trembles  with  his  passionate  play; 
Their  cheers  shower  round  him  like  the  ocean  spray 
Round  one  who  waits  upon  the  stormy  strand. 

Their  smiles,  sighs,  tears  all  are  at  his  command  : 
And  now  they  hear  the  trump  of  judgment  bray, 
And  now  one  silver  note  to  heaven  doth  stray 
And  fluttering  fall  upon  the  golden  sand. 

But  like  the  murmur  of  the  distant  sea 
Their  loud  applause,  and  far  off,  faint  and  weak 
Sounds  his  own  music  to  him,  wild  and  free — 

Far  from  the  soul  of  music  that  doth  speak 
In  wordless  wail  and  joyful  ecstasy 
From  that  good  viol  pressed  against  his  cheek. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  243 


XI. 

"  MY    SONGS   ARE    ALL    OF    THEE." 

MY  songs  are  all  of  thee,  what  though  I  sing 
Of  morning  when  the  stars  are  yet  in  sight, 
Of  evening,  or  the  melancholy  night, 
Of  birds  that  o'er  the  reddening  waters  wing; 

Of  song,  of  fire,  of  winds,  or  mists  that  cling 
To  mountain-tops,  of  winter  all  in  white, 
Of  rivers  that  toward  ocean  take  their  flight, 
Of  summer  when  the  rose  is  blossoming. 

I  think  no  thought  that  is  not  thine,  no  breath 
Of  life  I  breathe  beyond  thy  sanctity ; 
Thou  art  the  voice  that  silence  uttereth, 

And  of  all  sound  thou  art  the  sense.     From  thee 
The  music  of  my  song,  and  what  it  saith 
Is  but  the  beat  of  thy  heart,  throbbed  through  me. 


244  THE  NEW  DAY. 

XII. 

AFTER    MANY    DAYS. 

DEAR  heart,  I  would  that  after  many  days, 
When  we  are  gone,  true  lovers  in  a  book 
Might  find  these  faithful  songs  of  ours.     "  O  look  !  " 
I  hear  him  murmur  while  he  straightway  lays 

His  finger  on  the  page,  and  she  doth  raise 
Her  eyes  to  his.     Then,  like  the  winter  brook 
From  whose  young  limbs  a  sudden  summer  shook 
The  fetters,  love  flows  on  in  sunny  ways. 

I  would  that  when  we  are  no  more,  dear  heart, 
The  world  might  hold  thy  unforgotten  name 
Inviolate  in  these  still  living  rhymes. 

I  would  have  poets  say,  "  Let  not  the  art 
Wherewith  they  loved  be  lost!    To  us  the  blame 
Should  love  grow  less  in  these  our  modern  times." 


THE  NEW  DAY,  245 

XIII. 

WEAL   AND    WOE. 

O  HIGHEST,  strongest,  sweetest  woman-soul! 

Thou  boldest  in  the  Compass  of  thy  grace 

All  the  strange  fate  and  passion   of  thy  race; 

Of  the  old,  primal  curse  thou  knowest  the  whole: 
Thine  eyes,  too  wise,  are  heavy  with  the  dole, 

The  doubt,  the  dread  of  all  this  human  maze; 

Thou  in  the  virgin  morning  of  thy  days 

Hast  felt  the  bitter  waters  o'er  thee  roll. 
Yet  thou  knowest,  too,  the  terrible  delight, 

The  still  content,  and  solemn  ecstasy ; 

Whatever  sharp,  sweet  bliss  thy  kind  may  know. 
Thy  spirit  is  deep  for  pleasure  as  for  woe — 

Deep  as  the  rich,  dark-caverned,  awful  sea 

That    the    keen-winded,    glimmering    dawn    makes 
white. 


246  THE  NEW  DAY. 


XIV. 
OH,  LOVE  IS  NOT  A  SUMMER  MOOD." 


OH,  Love  is  not  a  summer  mood, 
Nor  flying  phantom  of  the  brain, 

Nor  youthful  fever  of  the  blood, 

Nor  dream,  nor  fate,  nor  circumstance. 
Love  is  not  born  of  blinded  chance, 
Nor  bred  in  simple  ignorance. 

n. 

Love  is  the  flower  of  maidenhood; 
Love  is  the  fruit  of  mortal  pain ; 

And  she  hath  winter  in  her  blood. 

True  love  is  steadfast  as  the  skies, 
And  once  alight  she  never  flies ; 
And  love  is  strong,  and  love  is  wise. 


THE  NEW  DAY.  247 


XV. 
"LOVE   IS  NOT   BOND   TO   ANY   MAN." 


LOVE  is  not  bond  to  any  man, 
Nor  slave  of  woman,  howso  fair. 

Love  knows  no  architect  nor  plan: 
She  is  a  lawless  wanderer, 
She  hath  no  master  over  her, 
And  loveth  not  her  worshipper. 

ii. 

But  though  she  knoweth  law  nor  plan — 
Though  she  is  free  as  light  and  air — 

Love  was  a  slave  since  time  began. 

Lo,  now,  behold  a  wondrous  thing: 
Though  from  stone  walls  she  taketh  wing, 
Love  may  be  led  by  a  silken  string. 


248  THE  NEW  DAY. 

XVI. 

"HE    KNOWS   NOT   THE   PATH    OF   DUTY. 

HE  knows  not  the  path  of  duty 
Who  says-  that  the  way  is  sweet; 

But  he  who  is  blind  to  the  beauty, 
And  finds  but  thorns  for  his  feet. 

He  alone  is  the  perfect  giver 

Who  swears  that  his  gift  is  nought; 

And  he  is  the  sure  receiver 

Who  gains  what  he  never  sought. 

Heaven  from  the  hopeless  doubter 

The  strong  believer  makes: 
Against  the  darkness  outer 

The  light  God's  likeness  takes. 

Like  the  pale,  cold  moon  above  her 
With  its  heart  of  the  heart  of  fire, 

My  Love  is  the  one  true  lover, 
And  hers  is  the  soul  of  desire. 


AFTER  SONG. 


THE  NEW  DAY. 


2CI 


AFTER-SONG. 

'"T^HROUGH  love  to  light !     Oh  wonderful  the  way 
.A.     That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day ! 
From  darkness  and  from  sorrow  of  the  night 
To  morning  that  comes  singing  o'er  the  sea. 
Through   love   to   light!     Through    light,  O  God,  to 

thee, 
Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal  light  of  light! 


DATE  DUE 


NOV  30 


981 


PKINTCOINU.S  A 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  258115    3 


